


say the words (and dedicate them all to me)

by haroldslouis



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Angst, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, M/M, NHL All-Star Weekend, Phone Sex, Pining, Rivalry, Slow Build, Smut, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haroldslouis/pseuds/haroldslouis
Summary: Jack and Connor reconnect, ironically enough, over a game of Words with Friends.
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 96
Kudos: 566





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If you have found this fic by Googling yourself or someone you know, turn back now. This is a work of fiction.
> 
> This fic loosely follows the events from April 2019 until January 2020. Some adjustments have been made to the NHL schedule to allow certain events to take place.
> 
> My infinite thanks goes out to [gabby](http://dkahun.tumblr.com) and [shaun](http://somewhatashaunn.tumblr.com) for beta reading this fic and encouraging me! 
> 
> Title is from "Words" by the Bee Gees.
> 
> Enjoy!♡

He can hear the sounds of the TV as he walks up to Sam’s hotel room. The purple carpet of the hallway muffles the sounds his socked feet make on the floor. There’s a cards game going on down the hall in Casey’s room, and he’d heard Rasmus on the bus talk about a tub of ice cream. He’ll stop by later to check in with them, gauging their moods after… everything. Nothing like a hotel room in Detroit at the very end of the season to get into their feelings, even if they did murder the Red Wings tonight. 

There’s times when it feels distant and intangible, those days when he was the rookie of the team. The unstoppable force destined to defy the immovable object. So far the object remains immovable, the destiny unfulfilled. At the start of the season, he’d had times where he thought, maybe. Maybe this year. That ten-game win streak in November had certainly fueled those thoughts, that bright spark of hope nestling into his chest and settling slightly to the right of the C on his jersey. But by New Year’s the wins had come farther between, becoming the exception to the rule once more come March. 

Sam’s coming out the bathroom when Jack steps into the room, his hair curling wetly at the nape of his neck. He’s got his game-day dress shirt crumpled in his left hand. 

“Hey,” he says, stuffing the shirt in the suitcase. It’s no use folding it up again, there’s already appointments for the tailor planned for both of them in September. He walks back into the bathroom. “Did you see?”

“See what?” Jack asks, turning the bill of his cap to the front as he sinks down onto the other bed. His phone slips out of the pocket of his loose sweats and onto the floor. He nods at the TV where TSN is currently on commercials. “The highlights of your goal? I saw that in person two hours ago.”

Sam snorts, walking into the room again and sitting down at the end of his own bed. “I think the Flames broke McDavid.”

Jack looks up from where he’d been grabbling around for his phone across the patterned carpet floor. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, they were talking about it. I was gonna watch the Habs highlights since that guy Poehling got a hat trick in his first game. But it’s all about the knee of McJesus.” 

“Nice,” Jack says, closing his fingers around his phone and sitting back against the headboard. “The debut hat trick, not McDavid’s knee. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sam repeats, a smirk playing around his lips. “Guess that’s no Worlds for him.” 

“Stromer’s probably halfway down a bag of M&Ms by now because of that.” He turns his phone around between his fingers a few times before unlocking it. He types out a quick  _ soz about ur boy, sux for worlds  _ to Dylan, because if there’s one thing that being the Captain of the Sabres has perfected in him, it’s to be a supportive voice during times of woe. 

Just as Sportscentre comes back on, he gets a text back from Dylan.  _ thanks. he says it’s not that bad but yeah no worlds prolly  _

Another text comes in immediately after that one,  _ you can tell him sorry yourself too you know.  _ The text has a contact attached. 

Jack looks at it for a few seconds, but then Duthie’s voice comes through the speakers of the TV. He looks up to see Connor tripping and crashing feet-first into the net at a breakneck speed, sending the net skidding across the ice. He looks back down at his phone, worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth. 

“Wanna go over to Casey’s?” Sam asks, tugging on a pair of socks. He looks over his shoulder at Jack. “They’re not gonna show highlights anyway, with this going on.” 

Jack saves Connor’s contact into his phone and meets Sam’s questioning look. “Yeah, sure.” 

He reaches for the remote on Sam’s bed right when Connor shows up on the screen. He’s dressed in a beige sweater, a decent beard covering his jawline and a hint of a relieved smile near the corner of his mouth. Jack turns the TV off. 

-

He arrives at the arena early the day after Phil’s firing for the locker cleanout and the exit interview. The sky overhead is cloudy as he pulls into the parking lot. His fingers drum a rhythm on the steering wheel as he looks out through the window. There’s media milling around already. He watches as they gather near the doors, congregating in little groups and probably discussing how the team’s managed to run another coach out the door. 

He grabs his baseball cap from the passenger’s seat, tugging it over his curls. If anything, he can duck his head and it’ll give his face a reprieve from the camera for a few seconds. It’s the fourth year in a row he’s doing this charade with them. Him standing in front of his stall and having to answer to them why they’re here and not on the road for the first round of the playoffs. This time, though, he’s the captain. It’s different. It’s the pressure he wants, a pressure he thrives under. He wouldn’t pass it off, not even today, but God. He’s tired. He’s sick of talking about it, too. It’s the same song over and over again, and it’s a shit fucking song to begin with.

The mood in the room is muted as they clean out their stalls. He’s peeling off remnant pieces of tape from the side of his stall as he watches Keith at the whiteboard, taking down sheets of paper with plays scribbled on them. Jeff is sitting next to him, humming softly as he packs some of his stuff into a large travel bag. They haven’t discussed the contract stuff in detail, but Jack’s made sure Jeff knows how much they all want him to stay. Whatever happens, today’s not the last time he sees him. They’re gonna meet up at Jake's wedding this summer, at least. He just hopes that next season Jeff’s name is still on the stall next to him.

He reaches out and softly fistbumps Jeff’s knee. Jeff looks up, his cheeks dimpling with the smile he sends his way. 

“What time are you flying out tomorrow?” Jack asks. 

“Early. Like eleven, I think?” Jeff shrugs. “What about you? Boston?” 

“Yeah, gonna hang out at home for a ‘lil bit. Meet up with some guys from college probably.” 

He’d made some rough plans with Noah back in February but then the Flames made the playoffs and they didn’t, so. He’s probably going to get called up for Worlds and Noah might, too, if the Flames get kicked out early. They could catch a vacation sometime after that. Or maybe the Flames go on to win the Cup and his summer will consist of three more dreadfully long months after Worlds. He instinctively pulls a face at that thought which Jeff mirrors, probably having guessed the general direction of his train of thought. 

They talk some more about Jeff’s plans for the off season and about what kind of training they’re both going to get into when Teresa walks into the locker room. She’s followed by the two-man camera crew and a handful of reporters. 

She stops in front of his stall and gives him an encouraging smile. “Morning, Jack. Last scrum of the season for you. Ready?”

“Always,” he says, pressing his palms down on his knees as he stands up. The reporters step in closer as soon as the camera’s set up, and he can see it in their faces, too. The tightness around the eyes, the tired, polite smiles they give him. 

They ask him about his role, of course, his first season with the C. He tells them he learned a lot, that there’s a lot to take from this season. It’s the rehearsed answer, the one given by a dozen or so NHL captains across the NHL right now whose teams didn’t make the playoffs either. It’s boring, and he knows it, but he’s not inclined to give them what’s really on his mind. The reporters can blame him for giving them cliches, but the parameters of the words that are deemed acceptable have been set by them. And there’s very little room for genuine human emotion within that. 

He doesn’t tell them that there were points where he should’ve had the right words to say to the team. Points where they expected the words from him, and there was simply nothing coming up. Being Captain is not like high school where he could bullshit his way through a English lit discussion solely on reading the back of the novel. This time he’s read the whole thing, has lived the whole thing, and still came up empty.

He tells them what he does know, what’s under the bottom line. “I can be better. I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna learn and I’m gonna grow.” 

He sticks around for the rest of the morning, standing closeby as the reporters get their last soundbites from Sam and Dahls. He walks with some of the guys to their cars, the mood lifting a little out on the parking lot as the sun comes through the clouds. The disappointment is a tangent running through each of their chests, but Zack’s jokes get chuckles all around, so it’s alright. 

Instead of getting into his car like the rest of them, he goes back inside. The arena is quiet, not a lot of people around now that there’s no hockey games in the coming months. He does one last lap around, shaking hands and giving his thanks some of the people who were there every home game. Donna from the ticket office has brought her son Tim with her so he takes his time to crouch down next to him. They take a few pictures and talk a little about school. Tim’s happiness and excitement spill over into him, too, and he makes Tim promise to come to the home opener next season. 

He drives back to his apartment with the radio on, letting the inane conversations wash over him. His phone starts buzzing in his pocket as soon as he opens the doors to his apartment. He whips himself up an omelet with most of the remaining leftovers in his fridge, unlocking his phone with his free hand. 

There’s several messages from the guys in the group chat with some more final goodbyes and pictures of stuff that other guys have forgotten at their places. He thumbs away most of the notifications, until something catches his eye. His thumb hovers over his screen. 

_ Connor McDavid has invited you for a game with him.  _

_ What in the fuck _ , is the first full thought that runs through his head upon reading those words. He drops the skillet he’s holding into the pan as he brings his phone closer to his face, opening up the notification. 

It’s from Words with Friends _.  _

He lets out a breath through his nose, rubbing at the side of his scalp underneath his cap. At least that explains it. Sort of.

The whole Words with Friends thing started way back during team North America. Saader and Scheifs had come up with the idea after an argument at dinner between some of the guys on which country was supposedly better at English. Stromer had been yelling about the vocabulary superiority of the Canadians since they had two official languages, to which Connor had responded with a quick, “But you don’t speak either of them.” 

It had made Jack nearly snort out his pudding through his nose, which was embarrassing for multiple reasons. Mainly for the fact that Saader had looked at him so disdainfully, but also that he had to admit that he’d laughed at something Connor said. He’s just glad there weren’t any cameras around, because Sportsnet could’ve dedicated a full hour to it. Easily.

He can’t remember playing a game of Words with Friends with Connor specifically. He does remember winning a game over Auston, though, but they both only managed four letter words at best. Still, a win is a win. Stromer got into it the most out of all of them. He played the game throughout the tournament, switching to random opponents by the end of it since they all got sick of losing to him. Jack still firmly upholds the theory that Stromer was cheating the whole time. No one knows if paucity is even a word, let alone what it means and least of all Stromer. 

Maybe Connor liked the game, too, if he’s still doing it. Or maybe he’s never got around to deleting the app, just like him. The game invite could be a glitch, simply the app recognizing a new contact in his phone. 

He presses his thumb down on  _ accept  _ and turns the stove off with his other hand. He’s sitting at his kitchen counter, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth when his phone buzzes again.

_ Connor McDavid has played IRONY for 8 points. _

Jack narrows his eyes at his screen, his fork dangling in mid-air. What’s that supposed to mean? The irony of them playing a game called Words with Friends hasn't escaped him, but he doesn’t think Connor would let himself acknowledge that, let alone point it out. And even if Connor is aware of, well, the irony, his polite Canadian boy programming wouldn’t allow him to actually type those letters out. He stares at the letters at the bottom of his own screen, chewing absentmindedly.

His addition of  _ ES  _ to Connor’s  _ Y  _ gets him five points. He takes a sip from his glass of water, staring at Connor’s name at the top of his screen. Technically, these are the first words they’ve spoken to each other in months that are not related to hockey. He can see the articles from The Athletic already, if they ever found out.  _ McDavid’s ANTEDILUVIAN versus Eichel’s LAMP: A linguistic reflection on their rivalry. _

He stays on his phone a while longer, waiting to see if Connor really wants to continue playing Words with Friends with him or if this whole thing’s like those jokes he makes; not really all that funny but offered so genuinely that it makes everyone smile anyway. Jack doesn’t even know if he makes those kind of jokes anymore. He did back before they were drafted, but that seems like ages ago now. During the few times they’ve faced each other on the ice, Connor’s seemed pretty similar to before. He’s a little sharper, a little more tense around the eyes, though. Jack wonders if Connor’s seen those same changes in him, or if he wasn’t even looking.

A tentative peek into his Twitter timeline has him scrolling down various tweets about Phil’s firing, the Sabres’ season, Connor’s announcement that he’s not going to Worlds and the first round of the playoffs. A notification slides down from above and Jack taps on it right away.

_ Connor McDavid has played TENSE for 6 points.  _

Jack snorts. He’s tempted to text him,  _ you think?  _

But they don’t do that. They’ve never texted, not even before the draft when they both had each other’s old phone numbers. Even that one night when Mitch was in his room playing Call of Duty and told him to text Connor to come over, Jack just texted Stromer instead. Connor came along anyway, as Jack had expected. Still, his plan hadn’t worked out perfectly because Mitch had piped up with a: “Hey Davo, Jack’s invitation didn’t extend to Stromer,” which had made Connor’s eyes fix on him. Jack had ignored the confusion in Connor’s eyes by killing Mitch with a beautifully aimed headshot, which resulted in obnoxious laughter from Stromer and outraged protests from Mitch, chaos ensuing.

He stares at Connor’s  _ TENSE  _ for a few more seconds and can’t help but wonder why he’s doing this. He also has the letters to play  _ AGREE  _ but he exchanges an E to play  _ GRAPE.  _

There. At least that’s straight-forward and unambiguous. There’s nothing suspicious about grapes. 

-

After leaving a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter with a thank-you note to his housekeeper, he goes home. He stays for about a week, spending time with his parents and Jess and eats dinner that is not according to any meal plan. His dad recruits him as an assistant for cleaning up the garage, so he spends a few days elbows deep in boxes filled with his old stuff. The Percy Jackson set is in one of them. On the evenings that he doesn’t catch up with his hometown friends, he reads the first book from cover to cover. 

The second book is splayed on his lap when he catches the plane to Slovakia for Worlds. He’s slumped down in his seat, legs crossed at the ankles as he goes through his messages on his phone. They caught a red-eye flight to arrive in Slovakia in the morning but there’s no sleep tugging at his eyelids yet. Noah is fast asleep next to him, though. His hair is long and flopped over his eyes, but the beginnings of his play-off beard are gone. 

Jack’s got his hoodie pulled over his head, music softly playing through his headphones. He tugs the draw cord of his hoodie between his teeth as he turns down the brightness on his phone. Connor put down the word  _ SPIDER  _ yesterday and got 20 points for laying it down on a double value tile. A yawn escapes his lips as he presses the shuffle button on his own letters. Fuck it. He drags an  _ S  _ to tack onto Connor’s word and gets 11 points. 

He’s about to pick up his book again when his phone buzzes against his thigh. He takes it out of his pocket and sees the notification for a new text in his inbox.

_ p sure thats cheating _

His fingers twitch as he reads it, eyes flitting towards the top of his screen where Connor’s name is displayed. All of a sudden, it’s tangible, this thing they’re doing. Playing the game is disconnected, in a way, from him and from who they are. It’s like batting balloons up in the air and having it fluttering back. It’s not direct communication. This is, though. Connor’s deliberately tugging on a string and Jack can feel the pull of it between his fingers. 

Noah is shifting in his seat next to him, his head angling towards him so Jack tilts the screen a little to the window. He worries his teeth along the inside of his bottom lip as he types out a text,  _ its efficient _

He watches the grey typing bubble pop up, his stomach curling oddly. Connor’s somewhere in Canada right now, probably in his bed, typing up a message to him. It’s crazy to imagine. 

Connor’s message comes through and it reads,  _ 0 points for creativity _

Jack smiles despite himself,  _ think you can do better? _

_ obviously _

Jack reads the text, the screen of his phone casting a blue tint onto his face. He can hear the tone of Connor’s voice in the word. Obviously. Jack hangs around hockey players most of his waking hours but he’s never met another guy that says the word as much as he’s heard Connor say it. 

A notification shows up at the top of his screen a few minutes later.  _ Connor McDavid has added RE to your previous word TIRE for 6 points. _

The snort he lets out is louder than it should be and a shush rises up from two rows behind him. He ducks a little deeper into his hoodie, his smile disappearing behind the fabric. Playing in Edmonton apparently hasn’t crushed out the little sense of humor Connor has in his possession. Maybe it’s even cultivated it. Who knows, maybe the Hart comes with a complementary sense of humor? Jack’s met Sidney Crosby, though, so he doubts it. He ends up sending,  _ hilarious  _ 🙄  _ you wish _

Connor’s reply comes quickly,  _ nah fastest skater would get boring _

Jack ignores the rush that sends down his spine and sends back just as fast,  _ isnt it already  _ . Noah then decides to reenter the land of the living, stretching his arms over his head. Jack locks his screen and puts his phone in the front pocket of his Team USA hoodie. Noah’s turning his head towards him so he pulls the hood off of his own, placing one side of his headphones behind his ear. 

“It’s fucking cold,” Noah grumbles, sleep heavy in his voice. He’s tucking his hands underneath his armpits, wrapping them closer around his body. 

“There’s blankets in the overheads, I think,” Jack says, jerking his head upwards. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Noah hums, not moving to grab one. He rubs at his eyes with the ball of his hand, raking his fingers through his hair. “What’re you doing?” 

Jack shrugs, nonchalant. “Music. Messing ‘round on my phone a bit.” 

He doesn’t have to tell Noah he’s been texting Connor. It’s not a thing. It’s what people with phones do, they text each other.

His stomach vibrates when his phone buzzes again. He puts his hands in the pocket and closes his fingers around it, looking over the heads of the guys in front of him at the screen with flight updates. “Four more hours,” he tells Noah. 

Noah’s got his eyes closed again. His forehead connects with Jack’s shoulder as he tips sideways a little, curling up in his seat. Jack uses his left hand to take out his phone, messing up the lock screen pattern a few times before he gets it. Connor’s sent two more texts.

The first one reads,  _ i think its fun,  _ with the second one following almost immediately after,  _ play another word bcs i got a good one _

Jack rolls his eyes at both texts but he opens up the app anyway, playing  _ GLUE  _ for nine points. 

He traces the plane on the screen, watches them fly over the German border. 

There’s another notification waiting for him.  _ Connor McDavid has played EFFECT for 15 points.  _

Jack tacks on another  _ S  _ on the triple word value tile and gets 48 points. He closes his eyes, feeling the tiredness creeping in near the corners. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

-

They’re a few days into the tournament when he gets a call on Monday morning, right before he’s about to leave for practice. The caller ID tells him it’s Botterill. Noah’s already standing by the door, the strap of his bag hitched over his shoulder. 

“Could you save me a seat?” he asks, turning the screen to Noah. “I gotta take this.” 

The call is quick and by the end of it, he’s got a lunch appointment with his new coach after practice on Friday. There hasn’t been an official announcement yet from the Sabres, though, so he can’t tell anyone on the team. He’s only got himself to think it over with as he sits on the bus on the way to the rink. 

“We thought it’d be a good idea,” Botterill had said on the phone, while Jack had sat at the end of his bed. “He’s closeby already and it’ll give you the opportunity to get to know each other before the season starts. Also to discuss, well, whatever you want to tell him. You know it’s your call.”

It’s another first that comes along with being captain, meeting the new coach before the rest does. Last time, he’d been with Zach and Kyle when Phil came in on his first day. It’d been a good conversation, most of the talk surrounding the roster and the vision Phil had in mind at the time. It also took place before, well. Before.

Before Jack had come out to the team and the organization. He and Botterill had agreed that it’d be his decision on whether or not to come out towards any new people joining the Sabres. He’s glad Botterill arranged this meeting for him and Krueger, away from Buffalo, away from the team and the grind of the regular season. It’s just another reminder that they take him into account, that his wishes matter here. He knows he’s lucky, knows that there’s very few teams like that. 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Noah nudging his elbow against his a few times. Their eyes meet when he looks up and Noah’s got a questioning look on his face.

“Bad call?” he asks.

Jack shakes his head. “No, it was a good one. I think.” 

He lowers his voice a little as he tells Noah the gist of the call, filling him in on Krueger’s appointment and the lunch on Friday. 

“You gonna tell him?” Noah asks, one of his eyebrows raising incrementally.

Jack knows what he means, of course. Noah’s known for years. He told him back when they were both playing college hockey in Boston, after a few beers and losses too many. He’s also pretty sure there’s more guys on Team USA and across the NHL who know he’s gay. It’s hard to keep something like that contained when everyone knows everyone. He knows a few players, too, who like guys or who like both. So far it hasn’t been an issue. They don’t seek each other out just because they’re not straight. The only thing he’s noticed is some players looking at him on the ice for a second too long, but nothing’s ever come of it. 

He purses his lips, staring through the window at the buildings passing by. “Probably, yeah. He’s half-European or something, so.” 

Noah snorts. “So obviously a true ally.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “He’s coached soccer in England, too. It’s a different culture.”

“I’m just kidding,” Noah says, knocking his knuckles against Jack’s. “You’ve got a point. And even if he’s not okay with it, I feel like it’s his job on the line before yours.”

“Face of the franchise, baby,” Jack smirks. He doubts his smile reaches his eyes, though, with the tendrils of worry still curling in his stomach. 

Noah doesn’t say anything about it, taking out his iPad instead. He opens YouTube and extends an airpod to Jack. Jack takes it and settles against his seat. 

-

They manage to squeak out a win against Finland in overtime and follow it up with another win against Great Britain on Thursday. He’s got five assists so far and there’s a high morale amongst the guys to make it far this year. 

The day before they face Denmark, Jack is sitting at a table along the Hlavná Ulica in the city centre of Košice. Krueger is sitting across from him, sunglasses pushed up on his head. They’ve been discussing the roster and the schedule for the new season while they both dig into their lunch.

Jack ordered the linguine with lobster and he nods along to Krueger’s opinions on one-off trips and home-and-homes while he winds the strands around his fork. He relays his own thoughts on the schedule in between bites. 

“Exactly.” Krueger nods when Jack brings up the health aspect. “That’s definitely part of the reason why some teams crash and burn in November, with the games and the flu starting to wear on ‘em.”

“Oh, for sure,” Jack agrees, scraping the last of his plate clean with his fork and popping it into his mouth. “At least we get a long off season to recover. The Sabres, at least.” 

Krueger laughs at the face Jack makes. “Well, let’s change that this season, hm?” 

Jack hits the lip of Krueger’s extended beer bottle with his own bottle of iced tea. “Sounds like a solid plan.” 

On the table, Krueger’s phone starts moving as it vibrates with an incoming message. Krueger looks at the screen. “It’s my wife, asking if I got lost,” he grins. “I guess we kinda forgot the time. It’s past two already.” 

“More vacation plans this afternoon?” Jack asks, taking a sip from his bottle. 

“Some sightseeing, nothing big,” Krueger says, typing out a quick message before setting his phone back down. “What about you, after Worlds? Got a vacation planned with your girlfriend or something?”

Jack swallows, slowly setting the bottle back down on the table. That’s his cue. 

“Or something,” he says, smiling wryly. “No girlfriend.” 

Krueger hums, nodding. “Well, you’re young. Going with a buddy, then?”

“Yeah, with Noah. Hanifin,” he clarifies. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. “But, uh, no girlfriends for me. Or, really, girls in general.”

He can see the exact moment when understanding dawns in Krueger’s eyes. The seconds stretch silent between them, amid the noises of the city and the other guests. 

“Well,” Krueger says, picking up his beer and taking a long sip, staring off somewhere into the distance while he does it. 

“Yep,” Jack says. He has to willfully keep his hands from fidgeting with the napkin in his lap, pressing the slightly sweaty palms together instead. 

“Fuck, kid,” Krueger says, letting out a dry chuckle. “It takes some serious stones to admit that, right at the very first meeting.” 

Jack shrugs, some of the tension in his shoulders ebbing away as he does it. “Now’s as good a time as any, I figured.”

Krueger leans back a little in his seat, looking as if he’s thinking over Jack’s words. The implications of those words, the endless what ifs that come along with it as possible sources of disruption in the future. 

“Does the team know?” 

Jack swallows, nodding. “Yeah, they do. Some other players, too, probably. I don’t know exactly which ones.”

“You been getting shit about it?” Krueger ask, his mouth pulled into a line.

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s, uh, been normal, mostly. No one’s outright been a dick about it.”

“Good. That’s good.” Krueger shoots him a reassuring smile. “I gotta say, this thing--it’s all a first for me. I’ve never had a gay player on my team before, soccer or hockey. That I know of, at least. I’m glad you told me.” 

Jack feels his own mouth curve into a smile, too. “It’s never really been an issue so far, during the season. I’ve known I was gay almost my entire life and it’s never messed up the hockey parts of it. But of course I’ll try not to let it affect the team in the future either.”

“Even if it would, though,” Krueger says, leaning forward a little in his seat. He’s got his palm flat on the table. “Let’s say you would get targeted during the game, or there’s others from, I don’t know, maybe top levels of the NHL, we’re gonna do our part to back you. The team obviously has already, but I’ll make sure that’s an attitude we’re going to reflect in the coaching staff, too.” 

It’s those words that keep replaying in his mind after they pay for their meal and say goodbye with a firm handshake and a clasp on his shoulder. He walks back to the hotel through the city centre. His earbuds have no music playing over them as he goes over the conversation in his head. He gets stopped a few times on his way by some fans to take photos and he knows, if he’d look at those pictures, his smile would be a tad brighter than usual. 

-

They don’t end up winning a medal, losing the game against Russia in the quarter-finals. The atmosphere is muted during breakfast the morning after, but by the afternoon, most guys are smiling again, excited about the summer vacations they’re about to go on.

He’s already crammed in the back of a taxi with Noah, the car weaving its way through the narrow streets of Mykonos, when he gets another text from Connor. They kept up a solid conversation during Worlds, trading thoughts on the games and exchanging chirps over their respective teams. He’d assumed that Connor would stop texting him once the tournament was over, the Venn diagram of their respective bubbles breaking up as they retreat into their own again. But apparently not. 

This time, it’s different too, because Connor’s sent him a picture. Jack looks at it for less than a second before he closes it again, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. 

“Why is McDavid texting you pictures?” Noah nearly shouts, leaning over into Jack’s space to try and look at his phone.

Jack angles his body towards the side of the car, shielding his phone away from Noah’s grabby hands. “No reason, I don’t know,” he says, quickly. 

“Was it a dick pic?” Noah demands, his voice loud in Jack’s ear as he’s basically draped across his back. “Are you having an affair with Connor fucking McDavid?” 

“I’m not having an affair!” Jack protests, his voice skipping on the last syllable. He feels the back of his neck heating up, knows there’s a red flush on his cheeks that he can’t completely blame on the Greek temperatures.

He sends a thanks up to heaven when the driver stops the car in front of their villa and shoves Noah out of the car. The money he presses into the guy’s hands is probably way too much, but he doesn’t care.

Noah’s still all over him as they make their way towards the house, the wheels of their suitcases clattering over the cobblestones. Jack squints his eyes against the bright sunlight as he finds the key the AirBnB host left for them. 

“What was that picture?” Noah asks again once they’re inside of the house. “Are you guys friends or something?” 

That gets Jack to turn around. “We’re not friends. We’re just--,” he makes an offhanded motion with his hands, “--talking, I guess.” 

“Talking?” Noah’s brows furrow with skepticism. 

“Yeah, texting, whatever. It’s what people with phones do, Hanny.” 

“How do you even have his number?” 

Jack sighs, pushing down his suitcase handle and moving it against the wall. He feels cornered and he knows that’s where his worst behavior comes out. “Can we, like, do this later? When I have more in my system than plane saltines?” 

Noah purses his lips, clearly considering whether or not Jack’s just trying to stall so he forgets about it. “Fine,” he says eventually. He holds up a finger to Jack’s face. “But we’re talking about this because you don’t even look at people you don’t like, let alone text them.”

“Fine,” Jack repeats, slapping Noah’s hand away and narrowing his eyes. 

Postponing what’s undoubtedly going to be an interrogation by his best friend doesn’t help much, because Noah keeps sending him these probing looks while they unpack their stuff and munch on the pizza they ordered. 

They’ve got a pool in the backyard that overlooks the beach and they go into it after dinner. The sun is a softer shade of orange now as it hangs low above the sea. Jack leans his forearms on the edge of the pool, water dripping down from his hair. Noah pops through the surface of the water next to him, shaking his head like a dog before mirroring Jack’s position.

“Seriously, dude.” 

Jack rolls his eyes, looking down at where he’s tracing the ridges between the pool tiles with his thumb. “I know.”

“What even was that picture?” Noah asks.

Jack can’t help but smile a little. He took a look at it once he was safely in his own bedroom of the villa, suitcase near the end of the bed as he’d sat down on it. The picture was relatively tame to what Noah was apparently imagining. It was a photo of Connor himself, dressed in jean shorts and an off-white t-shirt, a bandana wrapped around his forehead. He was near what looked like some kind of lake in Canada, crouching down next to a snake in the sparse grass. There was no text accompanying it but it wasn’t necessary. It was just Connor chirping him about something that happened almost half a decade ago. No big deal. 

When he tells Noah, he lets out a soft snort, before staring off at the sunset and lightly shaking his head. “Who’d’ve thought you guys would actually talk to each other without TSN forcing you to.” 

Jack doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so he mows his arm through the pool, covering Noah in a spray of water. Noah just laughs at him, lunging over to force his head under the water. He ends up having water clogged ears for the rest of the night but at least Noah doesn’t ask any more questions about Connor. 

-

They don’t do much during their first days on Mykonos. Usually Jack gets up first, the sun already high in the sky as he does a few laps in the pool. By the time Noah’s awake, he’ll be preparing breakfast at the kitchen counter. They eat underneath the sunshade attached to the house, feet propped up as they both go through their phones. They spend the rest of the morning working out. There’s equipment in the small gym room in the house and they make sure to get a good sweat going, jumping in the shower by the end of it. 

There’s a Jeep Wrangler in the garage that they usually take out around noon, the warm sea wind blowing their wet hair dry. As the more cultured eater between the two, Jack ends up ordering lunch for both of them most of the time. The afternoons are spent lazing around on the beach, hiking, or playing a game of beach volleyball with others. Dinner’s either in town or back at the villa, but usually followed by a night out filled with colorful drinks and too loud music. They’re in bed before it starts getting light out again, but it’s close.

It’s their second week on the island and they’re lounging around on the beach beds. The sun is high up in the blue sky and beaming down on them, the soft roar of the sea filling up the background noise. Noah’s lying next to him, the bill of his cap pulled down over his eyes. He balances an empty cup on his stomach, ice cubes melting at the bottom of it. 

Jack’s lying on his stomach, his cheekbone pillowed on his bicep. He uses his other hand to look at his phone, thumbing through the messages between him and Connor. There’s a solid string of them, short texts interspersed with various pictures. 

After Noah had gone to bed on that first night, Jack had replied with a handful of middle finger emojis to Connor’s picture with the snake. It had stayed quiet on Connor’s end for a bit after that, so Jack sent a picture himself two days later. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a photo he took of the sunset at the villa, the colors mirroring in the blue water of the pool. He’d added,  _ i should get one of these.  _

Connor had replied with a 🤔 emoji and,  _ outdoor pool in buffalo?  _

To which Jack had replied with,  _ yeah true.  _ He’d also snapped a picture when he was sitting in the jacuzzi, capturing the bubbles and the beer perched on the edge,  _ maybe this one tho? _

Connor said,  _ could use one of those in edm  _ , with a screenshot attached that displayed the temperature of a whopping seventeen degrees Celsius. 

Jack had been in bed, his head spinning a little as the alarm on the bedside table hit 3 a.m.. He’d responded with,  _ spend some of those contract $$$ then.  _ He’d sent another text right after that,  _ why are you even there rn. _

Connor's reply comes in as Jack slurps down a sip of his drink. He twists the bottom of the cup into the sand and reads the text. 

_ filming commercial for ccm  _

Jack snorts as he turns over onto his back, shielding his eyes from the sun with his phone. At least he doesn't have to do those kind of things. Small blessings. 

He holds his drink up, the bright green color almost blending in with the sea. He sends a picture of it to Connor with the message, _tough luck._ _Gonna stay in can the whole summer?_

He doesn't like to judge. He loves it, and he will judge Connor if he willingly stays up in that frozen wasteland the entire summer. 

_ dunno yet, depends on the kind of rehab my knee needs _

Jack lets out a giggle, mutters, “Knee needs,” to himself as he downs the last of his cocktail. 

“Maybe you should slow down,” Noah pipes up from beside him. Jack looks over just as Noah’s removing his hat from his face, eyes squinted against the sunlight. “McDavid’s not that funny.”

“It’s not him,” Jack lies. 

Noah just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, you’re asleep all the time,” he protests, flapping a hand at Noah. He swings his legs over the side of his beach bed and stands up, swaying a little. “Oh.”

“How ‘bout some iced coffee?” Noah gets up as well, shoving his hat backwards on his head. “That oughta sober you up a bit. We’ve got that bonfire thing tonight.” 

“Right, those Italians.” Jack remembers meeting four nearly identically handsome Italian guys a few nights ago. They’d become best friends within the hour, as drunk people are wont to do. One of them had been pretty into him, he thinks, with the way his hands had been plastered on his traps nearly the entire night. He’s a little fuzzy on the guy’s name, but he’s willing to put money down on Matteo. 

They slowly trudge to the coffee stand, feet dragging in the sand. The beach is busy with people spread out across beach beds and towels, various ball games going on and kids running around, screaming gleefully with their water guns clutched in their hands. Jack kicks a wayward soccer ball back towards a group of girls and gets what’s likely a ‘thank you’ shouted back at him in a language he doesn’t recognize. 

They’re standing underneath the canopy of the coffee stand, sipping at their iced drinks, when Noah says, “This day next week we’re flying back already.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Jack groans. “I got my meal plan sent in yesterday. It’s depressing how much chicken and broccoli I’m gonna kill again this year.”

“And all the fat you’ll have to train off,” Noah quips, pinching Jack’s side.

Jack twitches away from him. “Fuck off, leave me alone.” 

“You don’t mean that. Who else is gonna set you up with that Italian version of Roman Josi, what’s his name? Luca, something? Good luck finding a wingman as good as me.” 

Luca, that’s his name. Jack’s glad he didn’t put money on it after all. He turns his lip up at Noah. “As if I need your help with that. He was all over me the other night.”

“Too many Jägerbombs will do that to a man,” Noah says, solemnly. He cracks up at the look Jack sends him. “Kidding, bro. You know I’m all for you getting some European dick. The guy doesn’t even know who you are and he’s still hot for you.” 

Jack responds to that by fishing three ice cubes out of his empty cup and pushing them past the waistband of Noah’s trunks, all in one quick motion. Noah lets out a shriek and lunges at Jack, who jerks backwards and turns to run. 

He ends up getting his face dunked under in the sea with Noah’s hands on the sides of his head, but still. Worth it.

-

The bonfire is at the beach, too, that night. There’s a few dozen people gathered around it, music playing from a few bluetooth speakers and a crate of drinks wedged into the sand. Noah’s sitting next to a girl from Germany, both of them setting marshmallows on fire. 

When Jack walks up closer, Noah looks up and jerks his chin at him. “Back already?” 

He’d been sitting with Luca at first for about an hour, but Luca had an early flight to catch the following morning. Jack had walked him back to the place he and his buddies were staying at. Other than a few minutes of heated kissing up against the front door and a hickey on his neck, nothing had happened. 

He tells Noah about the early flight Luca had to take and shrugs before walking off, not keen to interrupt whatever Noah has going on with the girl. He lets himself drop into the sand a little harder than intended, his brain fuzzy with alcohol and lust. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns around. He takes the offered beer with a smile and opens it, drinking down a few gulps. 

There’s a flurry of conversations floating around him in the night’s air, the mix of languages all flowing together and becoming indiscernible. The breeze coming in from the sea is soft and warm on his face. He takes out his phone from his pocket and leans back on his elbows, checking his notifications.

_ Connor McDavid has played VARIOUS for 11 points. _

Jack blinks slowly at the screen. His thumb moves on its own accord, swiping the notification away and opening up his contacts. He’s tapped on Connor’s name and has his phone pressed against his ear before his brain truly catches up with what he’s doing.

The dial tone beeps at him for a few seconds before he hears a click.

“Uh, hello?”

Connor’s voice is barely audible with all the sounds around him, so Jack stands up on wobbly legs. He moves further away from the group, closer to the shoreline.

“Hey,” he says, a little too loud. “Connor?” 

“Yeah?” Connor says, sounding confused. “Jack? Are you okay?” 

Jack gets distracted for a second by the sea water covering his toes, but snaps his head back up when he realizes who he’s talking to. “Hey, yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, since, uh.” He can hear Connor clearing his throat, his voice soft and deep as he says, “You’re calling me and isn’t it, like, the middle of the night over there?”

“Oh,” Jack laughs, tangling the fingers of his other hand in his hair. “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty late. I’m at the beach.”

“Okay?” It’s quiet for a beat. “That sounds nice.”

“It is,” Jack nods, taking a sip from his beer. “It’s still, like, seventy degrees. What’s that in Canadian degrees? Twenty or something?”

He hears a soft burst of air before Connor says, “Yeah, twenty-something, uh, Canadian degrees. Same over here.” 

“Seventy degrees in Edmonton. I guess global warming really is real,” Jack mumbles, letting out a harsh breath as he lets himself drop into the sand. He’s nearly out of reach from the water, a wave brushing the bottom of his feet every once in a while. 

“Yeah.” There’s only the rush of the sea to be heard before Connor’s voice comes through the phone again, “Why, uh. Why are you calling me?”

Jack shrugs. It takes a few seconds before he realizes Connor can’t see that. “Bored,” he says. “Noah’s putting the moves on a German girl and I basically just got blown off, so.” 

“Oh,” Connor says softly. “That sucks.”

Jack makes an affirmative noise, digging his toes into the wet sand. 

“He was so hot, too, like,” he continues, rambling a little. “Noah called him an Italian Roman Josi and I guess he kinda was? I don’t know. I just know that I can’t look at the guy the same ever again. I feel like he’ll know somehow.”

“I, uh,” Connor’s silence stretches longer this time. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

He lets out a loud breath through his nose, shrugging again. Connor and his placating words are so on-brand, Jack wonders if the guy ever lets loose the string of curses that must be building up inside of him. “I guess. What are you up to, anyway?” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah.” Jack gulps down the last of his beer, laying down in the sand. He weaves his fingers through it, drawing patterns with his pinky. “More commercials?” 

“Uh, yeah, a couple,” Connor says. “They’re pretty funny, I guess. For me at least.”

Jack smiles at the self-deprecating tone that translates even through the phone and across continents. “Tell me about them?” 

-

He wakes up the following morning with a throbbing behind his temples and only a vague recollection of last night. He remembers the sway of the taxi as it had gone up the hill to their villa and the echoing of his and Noah’s laughter in the bathroom as they’d tried to rinse the sand off of their feet. The thin white curtains in front of the large windows do little to stop the sunlight from streaming into his room and he rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow.

The memory of his phone call to Connor sends a jolt through his body. He feels around with his hand underneath the pillows, coming up with his phone. The call log confirms it, with an outgoing call to Connor McDavid lasting twenty-five minutes.

Jack groans into his pillow. Twenty-five minutes? What did he even have to say to Connor that led to such a long conversation? 

He turns over on his back, trying to get the memory sharper in his mind. He remembers walking Luca home and making out with him for a while. There was also the beach, a lot of beer, and Noah being occupied with a girl. The tickle of the sea water against the soles of his feet as he’d sat near the shoreline, his phone pressed against his ear. They talked about the weather, of all things, and Connor had told him about a commercial he’d done that day. And Jack, he’d… His eyes fly open.

He’d told Connor about Luca.  _ Fuck.  _

Connor hadn’t said anything about it, though, because no amount of alcohol would let him forget if anything like that had happened. Connor had just been...normal. In as far as he can judge what the guy’s normal is. He’d simply talked about the things he was up to, what the commercials were about. That morning he’d had to sit at a desk on the ice, pretending to type on a typewriter with his gloves on. Jack’s sure he’d laughed pretty loudly at that one. 

He lets out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand down his face before reaching it out to the bottle of water on his nightstand. He sits up a little in bed, gulping down half the bottle in one go. 

It’s not the end of the world, if Connor knows. He’s found out the hard way that you can never really tell how people will react, but McJesus will be the last guy on the ice to give him shit about it. And maybe it hadn’t even been news to him. Stromer and Marns know, and Marns can’t keep a secret even if his life depended on it. Or Jack’s. So. It’s perfectly possible Connor already knew. He doesn’t want to think on why that makes something odd flip in his stomach, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes out his phone and types out a text to Connor.  _ i dont remember much what i said last nite but sorry for drunk calling you _

He gets up to shower, dragging the sheets of the bed onto the floor. The water from the rain shower is hot and steamy as it cascades down his body. The foam from the tooth paste drips down onto his stomach and he wipes it off, reaching down to palm at his cock. His headache makes it hard to get in the mood, though, so he doesn’t follow through. 

He’s got a towel around his waist as he wipes down the mirror, when his phone buzzes with an incoming message.

_ it’s okay _

Jack watches the typing bubble appear underneath Connor’s text, disappearing again after a few seconds before starting back up. Nothing follows, though, and it goes away again. He bites down on his lower lip, thumbs hovering over the screen. He ends up sending,  _ srsly if i said anything weird dont hold it against me. _

This time, Connor’s text comes right away.  _ you didn’t say anything weird, don’t worry. it was fun _

Jack lets his eyes go over the text a few times, the memory of Connor’s deep voice in his ear flowing back to the forefront of his mind. It  _ had  _ been fun. 

\- 

When he gets back home from Greece, he starts working out for real. He’s got a few buddies playing in college and the AHL who join him during his daily gym sessions. The days quickly start blending together like that, a mix of sleeping, working out, and eating as if he’s a large family all by himself. 

For some reason, he keeps talking to Connor. He can’t remember the number of Words with Friends games they’ve played already this summer, the list in the app growing steadily with every new game they starts. He does know that the wins are spread pretty evenly between the two of them, which makes it irresistible to keep playing. Three out of five is closer to becoming thirty out of fifty. 

Connor calls him, too, when he’s in the middle of driving down to Cape Cod to spend a long weekend with some of his buddies. Connor asks him about his workout routine, which is way more focused on building muscle mass than Connor’s usually is. He explains that with his knee still wrapped in kinesiotape, he’s looking to switch things up a little in his preparation to the season. Jack’s still got three more hours to drive, but he still ends up staying seated in his car once he’s parked his car on the driveway, because Connor’s talking about his skate fitting. 

It becomes easier for him to call after that, somehow. Now that Connor’s also called him, it feels less monumental when it happens more often. Which it does. 

He’s at a bar in Boston on the night of the NHL Awards. He calls Connor anyway because he’s got Instagram and, unfortunately, eyes. He doesn’t expect Connor to pick up because the event is going on at that very moment, but somehow he does. 

“Davo,” is all Jack says in lieu of a greeting. He knows the judgment in his voice comes through perfectly fine. “That fucking belt.”

He hears Connor’s sigh. “Yeah, I know. Cam keeps showing me his Twitter.” 

Jack laughs, shaking his head. “Dude, why are you even picking up, isn’t it still going?” 

“It’s commercial break,” Connor says, sounding mollified. “I think I’ve lost my speech.” 

“Bold of you to assume you’re going to win.” 

“Oh, I don’t,” Connor says hurriedly. “I mean, those others guys are, you know. Kucherov probably has it, I don’t know.” 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Jack says, twirling a coaster around between his fingers. If Connor isn’t shaking with nerves already, he’ll probably start any moment now. “If you win, like. You’ve done this before, it’s old news.”

“It doesn’t feel like that, though,” Connor says.

Jack wouldn’t know. He folds the coaster in half, pressing down hard on the ends. He’s about to say something, the silence stretching a little too long, but Connor beats him to it.

“It’s starting again. Gotta go.”

“Oh,” Jack says, releasing the coaster. “Uh, good luck. Tear off that belt if you get a chance.” 

He smiles at the sound of Connor’s snort before he ends the call. 

-

It’s a relief when the date for the home opener comes within a single turn of the page, his days filling up with hockey again. He meets up with Sam and Jeff as soon as they’re all back in town. It feels good, settled again, to have the three of them sit around his kitchen counter as they dig into an oven dish of lasagna. 

Connor’s on his way back, too, working to get ready for the home opener. They continue to talk, but Jack doesn’t bring up hockey often anymore. Neither does Connor. With the season so close and the tension it brings along, it feels weighted when Connor congratulates him on his OT winner against the Pens. It’s still preseason, so Jack returns the favor when Connor returns from his injury against the Coyotes. 

Jack sends Connor a picture of the carpet of his hotel room prior to the game against the Blue Jackets. It doesn’t talk a lot of imagination to see sperm cells in the pattern and he types out,  _ columbus is on sth i swear _

Connor sends one back of his own carpet with a plain geometrical pattern in truly awful colors, adding,  _ id be on something too with torts so close _

It becomes a bit of a thing, after that. They send each other pictures of the cities they go to, but don’t go into the hockey games that they play there. Still, Jack’s aware he might be too closely acquainted with the Oilers’ game schedule than is considered normal. It could be that he’s not alone in this, though, because after his coast-to-coast goal against Montreal a text from Connor comes in that simply reads, 👀. He feels the back of his neck heat up as he reads the text as it comes in. He’s sitting half-undressed in his stall and he keeps his eyes fixed on his phone. There’s no follow-up, though, and he quashes the twitch of disappointment he feels in his chest. 

The first direct reference to a game that either one of them is playing, comes from Connor. Jack’s out on a short walk around his hotel and has just sent Connor a picture of the Chicago riverwalk. There’s a few more people walking up and down the bridge, but they mostly pay him no mind. He’s taking a picture of a particularly fat looking duck to maybe send after, when Connor already texts him back.

_ good luck agaisnt stromer tonight _

He ducks his chin a little deeper into his scarf, shielding himself from the Chicago wind. Connor doesn’t have a game tonight, so maybe he’s going to watch Stromer play. He doesn’t expect Connor to watch the game for him, because that’s something he avoids doing, too. It still makes a thrum go through his veins, thinking of Connor watching the game. Noticing him. He likes that idea, wants Connor’s eyes to flit to him as he moves across the ice. He’s about to text back to Connor when there’s another text coming in. 

It’s not from Connor. Stromer has sent him,  _ hey wanna get sth to eat after the game? loser pays.  _ He’d also sent along a Google Maps location of a restaurant close to the hotel Jack's staying at with the team.

Jack bites at a piece of loose skin on his thumb, the rush of the wind the only sound in his ears. He tries not to think about it, but he still does, wondering if Stromer’s text might not be a coincidence. He wouldn’t give a second thought to Stromer’s invitation if it’d come in last season. They’d gone out for drinks after the game last year too, but it’d been a spur of the moment thing when they’d run into each other. They'd mostly talked about Stromer’s trade, since he’d only been in Chicago for a few weeks. Connor was not discussed, because at the time he hadn’t been as entrenched into Jack’s mind as he is now. Stromer knew well enough not to bring him up, either, with him. Even though Stromer has always been Connor’s Best Friend, with the capitalization firmly established in Jack's head, they still had fun together. But he can’t help but feel that it’s different this time. And he wonders how much Stromer is aware of that. If Connor’s told him about how they’ve been texting and calling for over five months already. If Connor’s let out that dumb smile as he’d shown Stromer that he and Jack had beat Stromer’s Words with Friends record. He feels a flush rise to his cheeks, imagining it. 

It’s more likely that Connor hasn’t told Stromer any of it. Maybe he doesn’t want to tell anyone and intends to keep quiet about it. He’d understand that. Noah only knows because he’d found out himself and he doubts that Noah thinks they’re still talking, now that the season has started. Still, thinking about Connor deliberately keeping it from Stromer makes his throat feel oddly tight. 

He types out a text back to Stromer, his slightly frozen fingers skipping a little across the keys.  _ loser pays means you pay everytime. meet me in the hallway after? _

Thinking of a text to Connor takes him a little longer. He wonders if he should tell Connor that he's having dinner with Stromer. It kind of feels like he should. Stromer is the only non-hockey entity that binds them together, keeping the degree of separation between him and Connor at one. It might also make things awkward if Stromer tells Connor and he doesn't. There's nothing he has to hide, really. Connor knows he and Stromer get along. Stromer is easy to make fun of and he doesn't take it personally, which Jack likes. It's not as if Jack's out here to steal Connor's best friend, even though he'd irrationally feel like that if Connor and Noah were ever to hang out. The discrepancy between both their personalities make that pretty unlikely, though, which Jack is thankful for. 

He's on the bus, already on his way to the rink when he finally types out a reply to Connor.  _ thanks _ . _ i better win bc im having dinner w stromer after and you kno how he gets when he wins _ .

He doesn't get a lot of time to think about what Connor must be thinking, knowing that he and Stromer are gonna meet up and talk about non-hockey topics for an extended period of time, one of which might be Connor himself. Connor's reply comes right when the United Center comes into view from his window seat.  _ hes even worse when he loses. good luck tho _

Given that Connor's already wished him good luck for the game, Jack is pretty sure this one is directed solely at his dinner with Stromer. He can't help but feel like he's gonna need it.

-

They’re ahead with two goals for most of the game, with a goal for Jack early in the first period. The Hawks get a second wind, though, and it’s tied by the end of the third. Jack gets a shot on goal first in OT but Lehner blocks it, sliding the puck across the ice to Keith, who gets it to Toews. Toews fakes out Linus with a nifty deke and ends up scoring the game winner for the Hawks. 

Jack skates towards the bench with Chelsea Dagger blaring through the arena, his legs heavy with fatigue and disappointment. He gets a friendly nudge from Brinks and Stromer as they come onto the ice to huddle together with their team. He taps them back with his stick, his lungs burning. 

He’s towelling his hair dry when Stromer texts him that he’s outside the locker room. Jack makes sure to let some of the guys know that he’ll get back to the hotel himself before he leaves. The hallway is busy, Blackhawks staff and media milling about with equipment. Lehner’s also in the hallway, talking to Gabe and Zach. Jack goes over as well. He’s just finished giving him a quick hug and slap on the back when he spots Stromer. 

Stromer’s leaning against the wall, feet crossed at his ankles. He looks up when Jack comes closer and flashes him a grin. 

“Hey, bro.” He slings his arm around Jack’s neck and pulls him in, nudging their heads together. “Sick goal.” 

“Thanks, man,” Jack smiles, trying not to let his disappointment with the game reach his eyes. “Few close calls on your end, too, in the second.”

“Next time,” Stromer shrugs good-naturedly. He jerks his head to the side. “My car’s just over here.” 

Jack follows him out to his car, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie. The lights of the car flash brightly in the dark lot when Stromer unlocks it, dumping his bag in the trunk. 

Stromer drives out onto the road with one hand on the steering wheel, pulling up his Spotify playlist with the other. Jack asks him about opening the season in Prague, which gets Stromer talking. He mostly listens, makes affirmative noises when Stromer’s sentences end in a “right?”, and talks a little about his own games coming up in Sweden. 

Stromer’s in the middle of a story about him and Alex going out in Prague when Jack realizes he’s been carrying tension in his shoulders. He forces himself to relax a little, resting the back of his head against the seat. The heat is on full in the car and he takes his hands out of the pocket of his hoodie, resting them on his thighs. 

It’s pretty clear Stromer doesn’t know. The lack of accusing fingers pointing at him or hands wrapped tightly around his throat sort of confirm that. It calms him down further. His and Connor’s thing can just stay hidden tonight, packed tightly away in his chest while he gets dinner with Stromer. 

Stromer ends up taking him to a rooftop bar. The floor to ceiling windows show off a wide view of the city below. It’s busy night with several large groups in the middle of their dinner, but they manage to get a booth just fine. 

“I come here a lot,” Dylan explains, as they both scoot into the booth. “The food’s good.”

“Good,” Jack says, flitting his eyes over the menu for a brief second before putting it back. “You can order then. I’m too beat to read through this whole thing.” 

“Sure, one plate of frog legs coming right up,” Stromer nods, cracking a smile when Jack moves to grab the menu again. “Kidding. I’ll just order us some steaks. If it ain’t broke, right?” 

The waiter comes over to their table a few minutes later. Jack lets Stromer do all the talking, making sure to give the waiter a smile before he walks off just so he knows Jack’s not trying to be rude. 

With the near certainty that Stromer has no clue about the status of his and Connor’s relationship, he relaxes enough to get some steady conversation flowing between them. They share a plate of roasted potatoes while they talk about the months after Worlds, the vacations they both took. Stromer updates him on some league gossip because he’s got big ears and a mouth to match. It’s fun to listen to and Jack nearly chokes on his drink several times. 

It’s a fun night. Definitely a step up from spending it in a hotel room playing video games until his eyes hurt, that’s for sure. But then he makes the mistake to begin about Alex.

Bringing up Alex turns out to set off the conversational dominos, if you will, starting at Stromer talking about spending time with Alex all the way down to their upcoming game against the Oilers in two weeks, after which they’ve got a dinner date with Connor. 

Jack can’t help but stiffen when Stromer says his name. He recovers fast, covering it up by setting his fork down and taking a sip from his drink. Still, his reaction doesn’t go unnoticed because Stromer starts laughing. 

“Oh, right,” Stromer grins. “I forgot who I’m having dinner with. Should I just say He Who Must Not Be Named? Would that help?” 

Jack frowns, rolling his eyes. “Fuck off, nerd, he’s not Voldemort.”

“You’re basically his, though,” Stromer says pointedly, picking up his glass and raising his eyebrows above the rim. 

“I’m not his--” He can’t find the right words, lets them dangle in the air as he motions with his fork, “--his nemesis, or whatever. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him.” 

He actually can’t, is the thing. He knows they played each other last in March, but he doesn’t have any tangible memories other than a tall figure zipping across the ice, the fabric of the 97 jersey fluttering in his wake. He doesn’t know if he’d looked Connor in the eyes at the ceremonial puck drop or across the face-off circle. He doesn’t remember the shape of Connor’s chin, if he’d still had his beard and his long hair or not. He thinks he would look for those things, now. Wishes he did, back then. 

Stromer’s snort interrupts his thoughts. “Yeah, I know. Davo’s too boring to have a nemesis, anyway.”

Jack shrugs, a handful of replies flitting through his head, none of them appropriately distant enough not to dash Stromer’s view of their relationship. 

“Still,” Stromer continues. “He gets so weird about you. Like, the draft’s been, what, five years ago now?”

“Give or take,” Jack says weakly, desperately trying to find a different topic to talk about. He does not need the information that Connor apparently gets weird about him, whatever that means. He especially doesn’t want to have to process said information in front of Connor’s best friend. 

“And, like, I’d get it if it were an on-ice thing, you know?” Stromer barrels on, chewing obnoxiously on a potato. “But I told him yesterday that I was gonna have dinner with you and he got that whole constipated look on his face.”

Jack stuffs a large bite of his food into his mouth, avoiding having to say anything. He feels a hot red flush spreading across his cheekbones and wishes he’d ordered a beer or a glass of wine to blame it on. 

Mercifully, the waiter picks that moment to stop by their table to ask if there’s anything else they need. Jack shakes his head with his mouth full. Stromer orders a bottle of iced water. Stromer digs into his food again once the waiter has left, and Jack thinks he’s in the clear. 

“Like, it’s just you?” Stromer continues. Jack can feel sweat break out in his neck. “Davo really shouldn’t make any more out of it than it is, right? I mean, even Crosby and Giroux tolerate each other now.” 

“Maybe it’s the whole American thing,” Jack mutters vaguely, looking out at the view of the city. It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t skip. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Stromer shrugs. “Who knows at this point.” 

Jack mentally raises his glass to that. 

“Anyway,” Stromer continues, “Speaking of Alex, he said something about this show you guys watched during Worlds?” 

If the topic change was a material thing, he would’ve grasped onto it and cradled it in his arms for the remainder of his life. He makes do with quickly taking out his phone, double checking to make sure that there’s no notifications from Connor before pulling up the Netflix page for Stromer to see. 

The conversation doesn’t flow back to Connor after they’re done with dinner. After they’ve eaten dessert and have two steaming cups of coffee in front of them, Jack begins about hockey, instead. He sips from his cup as he listens to Stromer talk stats on various guys in the league. A sense of relief spreads like the warmth of his coffee, and he talks along more easily for the rest of the night. 

It’s almost midnight when he gets into his cab, waving goodbye to Stromer as it pulls away from the curb. The drive is less than five minutes, and he’s toeing off his shoes when the clock below the TV hits midnight. 

His phone bounces when he throws it onto the bed, going into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss. He flicks the lights off before he moves over to his bed, tugging down his jeans and taking off his hoodie. It lands somewhere near the empty dresser. The sheets are chilly as he gets into bed, dressed only in his boxers and a thin white shirt with a hole in the collar. 

The sheets start buzzing as soon as he settles and he gropes around for his phone. The screen tells him  _ CONNOR MCDAVID IS CALLING  _ , casting a beam of light onto his face in the dark room. Something lurges in his chest at the sight. He drags the green horn to the right with his thumb, bringing his phone up to his ear. 

“I have an 8 a.m. flight tomorrow,” he says in lieu of a greeting, a slightly accusing tone in his voice. The soft rush of air he hears in response makes him settle deeper into his bed, shoulders relaxing.

“Sorry.” Connor doesn’t sound sorry at all. Jack can hear the smile in his voice. “Just wanted to, uh, talk for a bit. If that’s okay?” 

“Sure,” Jack says, tugging the blanket up higher and pressing his chin into it. “I can’t really fall asleep on a full stomach anyway.” 

He knows Connor will get the reference to his dinner with Stromer, knows that’s also why Connor called, even though he doesn’t outright want to ask about it.

Connor seems to get it, though, because the next thing he says is, “How was it?” 

Jack lets his hand rest on the lower part of his stomach, the tips of his fingers tucked into the waistband of his boxers. “It was fun. Held the doors open for me, paid at the end of the night. Excellent date manners.” 

The low sound of Connor’s chuckle makes a curl of warmth unfurl down his spine. “Stromer, a good date? Sounds wrong.” 

“Limited experience on the whole dating thing, so I guess I’m easily pleased,” Jack says. It’s a joke, but it has an undercurrent of truth to it. He can count the dates he’s had on two hands. If he subtracts the dates he went on with girls, well, he ends up with the sad number of two. Both of those weren’t actual dates and neither was tonight, so. Really, kinda sad. 

It stays quiet for a bit on the other end. “We could, um,” Connor eventually says, speaking slowly. “Do that. Sometime. If you want?” 

“Do what?” Jack asks, laying very still. The quietness of his hotel room suddenly envelops him, and he tightens his fingers around his phone. 

“Not-not like a date.” Connor’s voice comes through quicker now. “Just, what you and Stromer did. Get dinner. After a game.” 

Jack stares up at the ceiling, feeling oddly weightless. He’s blindsided by how much he wants. Wants to spend time with Connor, see him off the ice. He thinks about the jut of Connor’s collarbone peeking out of the collar of his sweater, like he’d seen in a photo from last summer. Imagines seeing that himself with Connor sitting across from him. Not too far away, though.

“In Edmonton?” he asks. He hopes the breathless note in his voice doesn’t carry across the phone. 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “I mean, I don’t really do restaurants, y’know, with the whole--”

“You being you thing?” Jack fills in. 

There’s a soft huff on the other side. “Yeah, that. But you could come over, or, um, I could come to the hotel?”

Imagining Connor walking through the hotel and bumping into one of his teammates makes the muscles across his ribs tighten with dread. There’s also the significant chance of a full-on meltdown of the entirety of Canadian media if Connor were even spotted near the hotel the Sabres usually stay at.

“I can come over,” Jack says, surprised at how easy-going he sounds, compared to the churning in his gut at the mere thought of being in Connor’s private space. Being invited into it. 

“Really?” The surprised tone in Connor’s voice doesn’t escape Jack. “You’d, uh, be cool with that?” 

Jack has to think on that, because cool is definitely not what he’d describe himself as being right now. Far from it. His hands are clammy and he’s breathing too hard, just from laying in his bed and thinking about Connor. Connor in street clothes with his longer hair flopping over his forehead, no helmet to keep it out of his eyes. The delicate bones of Connor’s wrist, a sight he’s caught over the years from across the faceoff circle. The heaviness of his cock filling up in his boxers, just from hearing Connor’s low monotone in his ear. He palms the base of it, feeling the thrum of pleasure go down his legs. So yeah, definitely not cool with it. 

He tells Connor, “Yeah, sure. Could be fun, right, to catch up away from all the cameras?” 

He doesn’t really know what he and Connor specifically have to catch up on, but he assumes it makes him sound casual enough.

“I think so, too,” Connor says. “It’s getting pretty late already, but we’ll talk about the specifics later? When the game’s closer.” 

Jack lets out a breath, relieved. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle talking about this in more detail right now. Agreeing to meet with Connor is pretty much rocking his worldview already.

“Good plan,” he says. He stifles the yawn that comes up. “I’m going to try and get some hours in.” 

Connor hums. “Yeah, of course. Have a good flight tomorrow.” It’s quiet for a beat, but then he says, softly, “Sweet dreams, Jack.” 

Jack smiles at the ceiling, shaking his head. Fondness blooms in his chest. Of course Connor’s the kind of guy to say sweet dreams. 

“Thanks. Talk to you soon.” 

-


	2. two

There’s a lot of games to be played before they go on the road to Canada, before they face the Oilers and he comes up against Connor. There’s no date marked on his calendar for that game, no reminder put into his phone to give a notification. He doesn’t need it. 

They go to Sweden for the Global Series. All the guys are excited about it, but the Swedes in particular, as they get to play in front of their family and friends for the first time as part of the NHL. 

They arrive early on in the week, so he’s able to sleep off some of his jet lag before the puck drops on Friday. He goes out with Sam and Jeff after practice to do some sightseeing in Stockholm. He sends a picture of the colorful houses in the city center to Connor, who replies with a picture from his balcony that shows Edmonton in possibly every shade of gray there exists. 

Sam’s sharing a room with him, so he ends up having to decline Connor’s call when it comes. They end up messaging back and forth while they both watch the same episode of Suits on Netflix. 

He gets a few looks from Sam thrown his way, mostly because his phone keeps buzzing across the sheets. Sam’s not like Noah, though, leaving him to it without any probing questions. 

He ends up missing half the episode, looking down at his phone during most of it. Connor keeps pointing out places in Toronto the show uses, his hometown pride seeping through the letters of his texts. 

They don’t win either of the games against the Lightning, sending them back to the States on a four game losing streak. The rest of November passes similarly. By the end of it, they’ve only come up with three wins and Jack can feel tension tighten in the locker room during those days. It’s hard to stick together, to have faith the process when the process only seems to send them further downhill. 

They get a hard fought win over the Leafs at the end of the month, and even though they lose to them the following day, everyone’s spirits are tilting upwards again. 

He’s on a nine-game point streak already, despite all the losses piling up. His stick seems to catch and release the puck flawlessly, his passes connecting and his shots hitting twine again and again. It gets excitement thrumming under his skin. There’s an extra gear he shifts into when he races down the ice, when he battles along the boards to keep the puck. 

The home crowd gets into it and the buzz spreads across the NHL. He tries not to pay attention to the media, doesn’t read the articles that are suddenly popping up about his abilities to carry a team. 

His mom does, though, and he gets a lively retelling over the phone every few days. It steels his spine, pride swelling in his chest. 

The first two games of the road trip across Canada don’t bode well for the rest of it, as they lose both of them. He manages to keep his streak alive, though. 

They land in Edmonton late on Saturday after the game against the Canucks. He’s dead on his feet as he makes his way off the plane. The wind is blowing hard and he tugs his coat tighter around his body as he goes down the steps. 

The bright floodlights illuminate the snow steadily coming down, settling wetly onto the tarmac. He walks towards the bus, shielding his eyes from the icy pierce of the snowflakes. 

He trudges up the stairs into the bus, letting himself drop into a seat at the back. Sam looks like he’s half asleep already, sinking down into the seats across the aisle. The corners of the windows are frosted up, the heaters overhead blowing steadily. 

There’s a steady stream of messages coming in when he turns his data back on. Noah only sent him, 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀, which he steadily ignores in favor of Connor’s text, _have you landed already?_

Jack yawns, typing back with one hand, _yeh on th bus now, freezin my balls off_

Even though it’s closing in on 2 a.m., Connor’s reply comes instantly, _layer up then, save lives_

 _thanks for ur concern w my junk,_ Jack sends, following it up with, _go to sleep it’s late_

He smiles at the 💤💤 Connor sends back, locking his screen and tucking it away. 

There’s nerves tickling the inside of his skin when he thinks about tomorrow. They’d initially thought up a whole plan on how they would meet without anyone knowing, but then Connor had said it was ridiculous and he’d just wait outside the visitor’s locker room for Jack. 

It makes him feel uncomfortably hot, thinking about it. His teammates could spot Connor there, waiting for him. The media, too. That would be even worse. Still, at least Connor's going to acknowledge his presence inside a rink, inside their place of work. It matters to him, somehow.

The bus starts moving then, and even though it’s a short ride to the hotel, the movements lull him to sleep before they’re onto the highway. 

-

Rogers Place is buzzing already by the time they get there late on Sunday afternoon. Jack changes out of his suit into his dark blue Sabres hoodie to get warmed up. A few of the guys are playing soccer outside of the locker room, people milling about with cameras and hockey equipment. 

Jack does his stretches along the wall with Sam, both of them watching the two-touch game as they get their muscles loosened up. Sam is offering some scathing remarks on Dahl’s technique which Jack has to snicker at, a welcome distraction from the growing nerves that are curling low in his stomach. 

He has to stop himself from jerking his head up at every flash of orange, even though it’s ridiculous to think that any of the Oilers would venture into this part of the stadium before the game. Still, the awareness that Connor is somewhere in this building makes his skin prickle. 

He’s shifting into the position to stretch his quads, one hand braced against the wall when the movement makes his phone slip out of the pocket of his hoodie. 

Sam releases his own foot to bend down. “Why did you bring your phone?” he asks, picking it up and handing it back to Jack.

Jack feels a flush creep up his neck and gives jerk with his shoulder. “Forgot to put it in my bag, I guess.” 

He gets back into the stretching position, gritting his teeth as he feels the muscle protest. Sam’s still looking at him, staring at the side of his head. 

“So this--” Sam grunts, back to stretching his hamstring, “--this has nothing to do with you not coming back to the hotel after the game?” 

Jack turns his head away as he reaches an arm above his head, stretching the muscles along his side. “Nope.”

Sam hums, releasing his stance with a sigh. “Alright. I’m gonna go and tape my stick.”

“‘kay,” Jack says, switching legs. 

Sam clasps down on his shoulder with his hand, squeezing a little. Jack sends him a smile before averting his eyes. 

It's obvious that Sam's suspecting that something is up with him, even if he doesn’t outright ask him anything. He probably doesn’t know it’s related to Connor and Jack would have to do a lot of explaining, because Sam’s not on the inside of their relationship like Noah and Dylan have been. That could also be a good thing, he realizes. 

Still, the bowels of Rogers Place two hours before puck drop is not the best time to talk to his friend about his and Connor’s _thing_ , even if he sorts of wants to. Which is new. 

“Jack!”

Jack jerks his head up, breath caught in his throat. 

Keith is standing in the doorway to the locker room, his eyebrows raised. “You good? Ralph wants to go over some plays for tonight.” 

“Yeah, uh,” he pushes himself off the wall, shaking his head a little as he walks towards the locker room. “Sure, of course.”

He deliberately doesn’t look when they go out onto the ice for warm ups. There’s flashes of orange and white in the corners of his vision but he ignores them, turning towards the net and firing a shot at Linus. 

He knows he can’t keep this up the whole time, knows he’ll have to look up and see Connor eventually. Ralph already told him his line’s likely gonna go out against Connor’s for most of the game, which means he’s got to take face-offs against him, too. At least Connor’s even worse at those than he is.

His plan to first look into Connor’s eyes at the puck drop fails. He’s making his way off the ice at the end of warm ups and dares one look across to the Oilers’ bench. 

Connor steps off the ice at the same time as he does, their eyes meeting for a brief second before they’re both swallowed up by the tunnels towards their respective locker rooms. An electric trill travels down Jack’s spine as he sits in his stall, letting Ralph’s words wash over him. 

It’s nothing compared to the feeling that spreads in his chest when he’s across from Connor, finally, standing near the face-off spot at center ice. 

Connor’s still got the beard going and a strand of hair falls over his forehead when he leans forward, stick pressed against his knees. 

“Hey,” Connor says, the corner of his mouth jerking upwards. “You good?” 

Jack breathes out through his lips, nodding. The light reflecting off the ice brings out the gray in Connor’s eyes and he tightens his hands around his stick.“Yeah. You?” 

Connor’s lips curve into a real smile. “Same.”

St. Pierre drops the puck, their shoulders and sticks colliding together as Jack wins the face-off and they’re off. 

It’s a fast-paced game from the get go and they get an early lead in the fourth minute, following it up with a second goal later in the first. 

He’s aware of Connor’s presence for the whole time they’re on the ice together. Connor pushes him against the boards a couple of times, jamming his knees up against the back of Jack’s. His body is a heavy line along Jack’s back and he can hear the noises and grunts Connor makes as they battle for control of the puck. He feels winded when he gets off the ice at the end of every shift, sweat prickling at the nape of his neck.

They’re both not playing their best game out there, with no points for either of them as the clock winds down in the third period. Even though they’d given up the two goal lead, Jack’s glad they at least got the point here as the game goes to overtime.

Ralph gives them a few quick directions before he has to go back to the face-off circle, Connor already standing there. Connor gets in position as Jack skates up to the spot, mirroring his stance. 

Drops of sweat are gathered above Connor’s brow and his lips are red and chapped. “See you in a bit,” he breathes, a challenging glint in his eyes. 

St. Pierre drops the puck before Jack can reply. Connor’s direct reference to their meeting later flusters him enough to cause him to fumble on the face-off and Connor wins it, sending it towards Klefbom. 

“Fuck you,” Jack curses, skating away from Connor to take the lane away from Draisaitl, who’s coming up the ice. 

Marcus ends up forcing a turnover and they do a one-two touch in the middle of the ice before Marcus sends it across to Colin who puts it on the inside of the near post, sending Smith sprawling across the blue paint. 

Jack lets out a whoop, crashing into Marcus and Colin. He’s panting hard as the team gathers around them, his helmet being shaken as someone congratulates him. They won and his point streak is still alive and he knows he’s beaming. 

By the time he’s congratulated his teammates and given Linus a kiss on his mask, the Oilers have made their way off the ice. He catches a glimpse of a 97 jersey disappearing into the tunnel and not even the win can keep the nervous churn in his stomach at bay. 

He doesn’t have to do media when he gets back to the locker room which he’s thankful for. His play wasn’t good tonight, even if his streak is still alive, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to deal with a question related to Connor at this moment. Not when he’s biting at the loose skin on his bottom lip, just thinking about seeing him in a few moments. 

The hot water of the shower calms him down somewhat, getting his body heat under control again. He gets dressed quickly and ignores the look Sam is sending him when he notices that he’s not putting his Sabres hoodie on but a plain black one instead. He makes sure he’s got his phone and his wallet before dumping his bag on the cart destined for the bus. 

He manages to slip out of the chaotic locker room relatively unnoticed, but the nearly empty hallway outside doesn’t give him a sense of calm. The hallway goes off into two directions and he has no idea from which side Connor’s going to come. 

It makes him feel oddly exposed, the possibility that he might look in the wrong direction and he won’t be able to see Connor arrive. He takes a step back, resting his back against the wall. 

He’s contemplating taking out his phone so he’ll at least look busy when someone comes by when he hears footsteps nearing. It could be anyone but something in his gut tells him it’s not just anyone. He looks up right when Connor comes around the corner. 

Connor’s wearing a long black coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck. His sneakers squeak a little across the floor as he walks up to where Jack’s standing. 

“Hey,” Connor says, giving him a smile. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if you’d be done already.” 

“Yeah, uh, no media for me today,” Jack says, running his tongue along the inside of his teeth. 

He doesn’t know what to do, if he should step in, maybe shake Connor’s hand or give him a hug. The handshake seems stupid so he mentally crosses that one off the list, but the idea of hugging Connor also makes his skin feel tight. 

There’s apparently no time for either though, as Connor seems to be in a hurry. He’s already walking again and jerking his head to get Jack to walk along with him. 

“They’re still doing media in our locker room,” he explains. “I went first so I could get us out of here before they’re done.” 

“Good thinking.” Jack takes a few long strides, falling into step with Connor as he leads them through the dark and empty hallways beneath the arena. 

They’re at the exit within a minute and Connor pushes his shoulder against the door, holding it open as Jack passes him. It’s snowing again and they both cover their heads, Jack pulling up the hood of his coat and Connor putting a beanie on over his hair. 

“I’m over here,” Connor says, catching up with Jack and curling a hand around his elbow, tugging him in a different direction.

Jack nods, letting Connor guide him over to the sleek black car in the corner of the parking lot. Connor lets him go once they’re closer, taking out his key and going over to the driver’s side. The lights of the car flash as it opens, coloring the snow red for a second.

The car is comfortably warm inside, enveloping him as he leans back against the seat. There’s a whoosh of cold air when Connor opens his own door, getting inside and slamming it shut behind him. 

The silence suddenly feels enormous, the space between them thinning now that they’re enclosed in a small space like this. The windshield is covered in a thick layer of snow, forming another barrier between them and the world. 

Jack allows himself to look sideways, taking in Connor’s profile. Connor’s fiddling with some buttons, starting up the wipers. 

His hair is curling up a bit underneath the edge of the beanie. It’s longer than Jack has ever seen it in the past, even though Connor doesn’t have it as long as last season. It looks good on him, as does the beard. They make him look older. Less vulnerable, too. 

Connor looks up then, meeting his eyes. Jack clears his throat, averting his. The windshield wipers have pushed off the snow, revealing the dark outside. The front lights illuminate the snow steadily coming down. 

“Nice car,” Jack says, his voice coming out softer than he intended to. He trails a finger over the leather upholstery. Connor’s still looking at him.

“Thanks.” Connor starts the car, placing a hand on the back of Jack’s seat as he looks behind him, backing the car up. The snow crunches underneath the wheels when Connor starts pulling out of the parking lot. “Bought it just before the season started.” 

“And you’re putting her through this already?” Jack asks, jerking his head at the weather outside. 

“She’s holding her own,” Connor grins, turning the radio on. Once they’re on the highway, he stretches his arm back again, grappling around for something on the backseat. 

Jack frowns, looking between Connor leaning into his space and the road, which lacks a pair of eyes on it. “Need help?” 

“Got it,” Connor says, shifting back fully into his own seat and holding up a handful of protein bars. He drops the protein bars into the space behind the gear shift, but grabs one and extends it to Jack. “Want one?” 

Eating means less talking, and since he’s feeling a little at a loss for words now, he takes the proffered protein bar. He takes it out of the wrapper and watches Connor struggle as he tries to open his own with one hand. 

“Here,” he says, grabbing Connor’s bar and pushing his own into Connor’s hand. 

Connor looks at him, smiling. “Thanks.” 

Jack sinks a little further into his seat, eating half the bar in one bite. 

-

Of all the things he expected, imagined when thinking about coming into Connor’s home, getting jumped by an overly enthusiastic dog wasn’t one of them. 

He’s got his hands burrowed in the dog’s fur, rubbing underneath its ears. Connor’s standing behind him in the hallway, taking off his coat and beanie. 

“C’mon, Lenny,” Connor says, hanging up his stuff. Jack can feel the touch of Connor’s hand on his lower back when he passes by him, and it burns even through the thick layer of his coat. “Get down.” 

Jack takes off his own coat, too, and hangs it up. He can’t help but smile at the way Lenny rolls around on the floor, getting Connor to pet his belly. “He’s cute. Who takes care of him when you’re on the road?”

“My agent lives nearby. His kids usually do,” Connor says, standing up again and walking further into the house. The hallway flows into an open floor plan with a large kitchen. Connor opens the fridge, looking over his shoulder. “Want something to drink? I’m having an iced tea.” 

“Same, thanks.” Jack hovers near the kitchen island, looking around. Connor’s house is... impersonal, to say the least. 

There’s hardly any touches of anyone living in it, save for the Oilers game schedule on the second fridge along with a few pictures. Jack’s got a bachelor pad himself, but at least he’s got potted plants in the corners and fluffy blankets strewn over the back of his couch. Connor’s just got surfaces that range from looking mildly uncomfortable to very uncomfortable to relax on. 

“Here you go,” Connor says, handing him a glass. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, the drawstrings fraying at the end. His hair’s falling into his eyes again. It's hard to look away from him, like this, in this private space that only holds the two of them.

“Thanks,” Jack says, tightening his fingers around the glass as if to squeeze out the lingering tension he can feel running through him. 

Connor’s clearly no longer the kid he was five years ago. He’s gotten taller, his bone structure more pronounced. He's still on the lean side but there's power in his hands and forearms. The thrum of attraction he feels isn't new but it feels more significant here, with Connor looking like he does and being just a few feet away from him.

He clear his throat, tearing his eyes away. He walks over to the fridge to check out the pictures. They're held up with scotch tape instead of magnets, which sets off an odd pang in his chest. 

Lenny trails around his legs, butting his head against his knee. Jack absentmindedly pets him, looking at the pictures. 

There’s a vacation picture of Connor and his parents, Connor with some friends near a lake, and a picture of him standing on the ice with Draisaitl. He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on the last picture. 

“Most of those are from the summer,” Connor says. His voice comes from close by and Jack looks sideways, seeing Connor leaning against the kitchen island behind him. 

He points at the picture near the lake. “Is that where you found that snake?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at Connor.

Connor grins, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Jack fights his own smile. “Yeah. It was funny, though, right?”

Jack remembers the hysterics that picture caused with Noah, but also the warm, soothing feeling he got when he’d stared at it when he was alone in his own room. 

“It was alright,” he concedes, also leaning back against the kitchen counter. He bumps his shoulder against Connor’s, feeling expanding inside of him when Connor’s smile goes softer. He takes another look at the photo and notices it. “You’ve got a pretty heavy-duty knee brace on there. You didn’t have it in the photo you sent to me.” 

“Hm?” Connor looks at the picture. “Oh, yeah. I took it off ‘bout a week and a half after that picture. The one to you was sent after.” 

“I thought the injury wasn’t that bad,” Jack says, frowning a little. He looks sideways at Connor, who’s rubbing at the side of his head, looking a little sheepish. “Everyone said you were pretty much fine. That doesn’t look fine to me.” 

“Yeah, um,” Connor says, propping his hands up behind him on the counter. The soft inside of his forearm brushes against Jack's arm. “We didn’t really tell anyone what it really was.” 

“What was it, then?” Jack asks. As soon as the question leaves his mouth, he wonders if he’s maybe overstepped. They get touchy over injuries in their sport, not wanting to show weakness, not wanting to decrease their own market value. He knocks his elbow against Connor’s. “It’s fine if you don’t want to say.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Connor says. He looks at Jack briefly, looking older than the twenty-two years that he is in that one glance. “Sportsnet’s going to release the documentary soon, anyway, so. I tore my PCL completely and some other stuff. Cracked my tibia.” 

“Shit, really?” Jack sets his glass down on the counter, looking down at Connor’s knee. He can’t see anything, obviously, but it’s surreal to think that Connor’s already back and playing hockey after going through that. “You actually broke your knee.” 

“Sort of, yeah.” Connor nods, letting out a sigh. He shrugs, ducking into his shoulders a little. “It was pretty bad. For a while they said it could’ve been career ending even.” 

Jack looks at Connor, feeling a cold thrill run down his spine at those words. Connor’s staring at the picture, not blinking. He looks sideways then, meeting Jack’s eyes and giving him a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Jack lets out a sigh, shaking his head a little. 

“That’s insane,” is all Jack can say. His mind is churning, bringing the memories back up from that night. He takes a sip from his drink, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing it. “Stromer told me it wasn’t that bad. Did he lie about it for you?” 

“I didn’t tell him at first. It was chaotic in the beginning, after we decided not to go for the surgery,” Connor mumbles, moving away to sit at the kitchen counter. He pushes his foot against the chair across from him, sliding it back for Jack. “He came by after Worlds and saw it for himself. There was also the camera crew and everything, so I couldn’t really keep it from him.”

Jack sinks down into the seat, propping his elbows up and resting his chin on his knuckles. “Were you always gonna do the documentary, like, for the off season?” 

“No, it’s really about the injury and the whole recovery process,” Connor says, turning his glass between the palms of his hands. The iced tea rocks from side to side with the movement. He looks back up at Jack, a wry smile on his face. His voice is soft when he says, “Apparently it’s good TV. Or so they told me.”

Jack’s surprised at the sudden flash of resentment that goes through his chest, how offended he feels on behalf of Connor. That he’s had to go through that. The media latching onto his recovery process, butting in as they always do while the recovery was never guaranteed. “That’s some fucking nerve.” 

Connor looks up, surprised. “What, me?”

“No, not you, obviously,” Jack says, flattening his palms on the cold counter as he gets up off the chair again. He feels worked up, thinking about the audacity of filming Connor going through this kind of pain. “Sportsnet taking advantage of your most vulnerable moments so they can get a movie out of it.”

“Jack, really, it’s--” Connor hesitates, looking uncomfortable. His hand is on the counter, too, fingers inching closer to Jack’s. “Honestly. It’s fine. Like, I’ve had documentaries made about me since I was thirteen.”

“And that makes it okay?” Jack counters. Connor’s offhanded acceptance jabs him in the wrong way, irritation climbing up his spine. “You’re allowing them to use you, to make bank off of your suffering.”

“It’s not suffering,” Connor shoots back, a harsh edge to his voice. “It’s not. It’s a--fuck, I don’t know. An inspirational story about achieving your goals and not giving up.” 

Jack feels the scoff rising in his throat but he cuts it off, staring at Connor. The silence grows, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound filling up the kitchen. Connor looks back at him, his brown eyes wide but steeled. He pulls his hand away from the counter and stands up as well.

“Y’know, forget about it. Let’s just go watch some--”

“What if it hadn’t worked out?” Jack asks, cutting Connor off. He keeps Connor’s gaze, trying to find some realization there. Connor just looks closed off and defensive, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Jack puts his hands on the back of the chairs, fingers curling as he leans forward. “What if your knee hadn’t healed and you didn’t get your inspirational recovery story? You could’ve had to retire at twenty-two. What d’you think they would’ve done with all the footage?” 

Connor averts his eyes, the muscle in his jaw twitching as it tightens.“Deleted it probably, I don’t know.” He looks back at Jack. “What does it matter?” 

“You really think they’d do that?” Jack shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t understand Connor. Doesn’t get the allowances he’s willing to make for those that would try to rob his inner thoughts if they could. “Because I think they would’ve made a theatrical release out of it. Sold out opening weekend across the GTA!” 

Connor looks angry now, the look in his eyes going hard. Jack realizes he’s angry, too, because yes. He apparently cares. A lot. And he didn’t think Connor would be so ignorant, still. So childish. To think that just because his hockey’s great, people will care about what’s in his best interest. 

If he and Connor were to have one thing in common, surely it’d be the understanding that the media is not their friend. It never has been. In fact, it’s the reason why they never could be in the same space without the shade of rivalry being cast over them at all times. 

And Jack resents them for it. Because, fuck. Maybe he would’ve liked it, for them to be able to choose for themselves what their relationship would become. They took that from them, ushering them down this narrative that’s been going on for so long it’s begun to feel natural. He can’t believe that Connor doesn’t know all this. That he’s not aware of it.

“I want you to go,” Connor says, no trace of softness in his voice anymore. He’s not looking straight at Jack, his eyes fixed somewhere above his left shoulder. 

Jack raises his hands, palms up. “How can I? You drove me here,” he shoots back.

“I’ll drive you back to your hotel then,” Connor retorts, looking stubborn. His eyebrows are knitting together, his mouth pulled in a straight line. He briefly meets Jack’s eyes before he turns around, stalking away from the kitchen island and into the hallway.

Jack hears him put on his coat and lets out a humorless laugh, the sound filling up the empty kitchen. So that’s it then, he wants to say. Jack Eichel and Connor McDavid’s friendship, dead on arrival. He wonders what the entire point of this was, of Connor seeking him out if he’s only going to throw it away once Jack suggests that he might deserve to get treated like a fucking human being. 

It’s still snowing outside when the front door closes behind him, Connor walking three steps ahead of him towards the car. Jack walks around it and gets inside, letting out a tired sigh once he’s seated. 

He crosses his arms and turns his head to the window when Connor gets in, feeling the car starting to move a few seconds later. 

Connor drives fast. The signs along the highway flash by and the snow is whipping around the car. Jack looks to the side, taking in the sharp jut of Connor’s jawline and his large hands curled around the steering wheel. 

A swooping feeling takes hold in his stomach which he ignores, throwing a look at the speedometer. “I know you want to get rid of me or whatever, but I don’t want to die in a car crash in fucking Edmonton.” 

Connor doesn’t say anything. The only sign that indicates he’s even heard him is the way his knuckles slightly clench, the skin going white. He does slow down a little. 

The lit up name of the hotel appears between the other buildings as they drive down the street. Jack’s chewing on his bottom lip, realizing that whatever it is between them is not only already broken but could also be over in a few minutes. He lets out a sigh, looking down at his hands. 

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, slowly, trying. “No one’s forcing you to do this, to allow the media this much of yourself. I don’t do it either.” 

Connor stops the car in front of the hotel, pressing a button to unlock the passenger’s door. He turns his face towards Jack, his expression unreadable. “That’s because you don’t have to. You’re not the best player in the league.”

White hot humiliation spikes through Jack’s chest like it hasn’t in ages, not since their draft year, and it’s the matter-of-fact tone in Connor’s voice that indicates he meant that one to hurt. He feels it burn behind his eyes. “Fuck you, Connor,” he bites out. 

He grabs the door handle and pushes it open, getting out of the car. He doesn’t look back when he throws the door shut, stalking up to the hotel entrance. 

The sliding doors swoosh open and he doesn’t stop walking until he’s gone up the three flights of stairs and down the hallway to the door of his hotel room. 

His card doesn’t work on the first few tries and he lets out a curse, shoving the door open when it finally gives. The handle bounces of the wall with the force of it. The hotel room is cold and dark, and he slaps the palm of his hand against the light switches. The lights turn on and he makes his way to the bed, sinking down on it. 

He sees the lights of the traffic going past below him, thinks about Connor making the drive back. He lets out a sigh, resting his elbows on his knees as he presses his palms against his eyes. 

His body is releasing the last of the pent up tension and adrenaline and now he can feel how truly tired he is. From the game, the overtime, but also from Connor. It meant a lot more to him than he thought, and now that it’s all blown up spectacularly in his face he realizes how much he’d wanted it to go right. How much he’d wanted to be close to Connor, get to know him more intimately, to be able to read his expressions effortlessly like Dylan can. 

Instead, he said things Connor hadn’t wanted to hear and now it’s just. Over. 

There’s a knock on his door and he gets off the bed. He turns the TV on while he walks towards the door, hearing the background noise of a late night talk show filling up the room.

Sam is on the other side of his door, holding up his bag. “Hey,” he says, smiling up at Jack, “You’re back pretty early. I dragged this one off the bus for you.” 

“Thanks,” Jack says, taking his bag from Sam. He bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s not that early.” 

“Eh,” Sam shrugs, walking past Jack into the room. They always do it, hang out in each other’s room no matter what the score ended up being that night. This night, though, the score was Jack getting kicked out by Connor and he’s pretty sure Sam’s not aware of that. “I thought you were on a date or something. Had my earplugs ready and everything in case you were bringing him back to your room.” 

Jack walks back slowly into the room, looking at Sam sprawled out on his bed. He flops down next to him, shoving a bit at Sam to get some space. “Why’d you think I had a date?”

“Dude, I know you,” Sam scoffs. “You snuck out of the locker room tonight. And I’m willing to bet your screen time’s been through the roof since we got here.” 

“I didn’t sneak out,” Jack lies, knocking his shoulder against Sam’s. He rubs his socked feet together, eyes fixed on the movement of the cars he can see from the window. Something heavy settles inside him when he says, “And it wasn’t a date.”

Sam lets out a soft hum. Jack can feel him looking at him. “You're sayin' that like you wanted it to be.” 

Jack presses his lips together, averting his eyes from the windows to his clasped hands across his stomach. He knows Sam can feel the slight shrug he gives. Sam doesn’t know who he’s talking about, so maybe. Maybe he can-- “Yeah, I guess I did.” 

It’s out before he’s made up his mind on it. It hits him, then, settles painfully in his chest. Because he _had_ wanted it to be a date. At least, something more. And something in Connor’s eyes and the soft lilt of his voice, in the way he’d curled his hand around the inside of Jack’s elbow as they’d crossed the parking lot tells him that, maybe, Connor had wanted it, too. Before Jack pressed on, forcing the conversation to turn volatile. 

He takes a deep breath, meets Sam’s eyes. “I think I went in too hard on something I believed I was right about.” 

“I’ve been there, bud,” Sam sighs, briefly patting Jack’s thigh. “Did you realize you weren’t?”

“No, I _am_ right,” he says, his voice coming out firm. He’ll never let the media in like Connor does, commercialize himself, and he knows it’s better for Connor if he doesn’t, either. And he thought Connor knew that, too, deep down somewhere. 

Turns out he doesn’t, and all of a sudden Jack had become the bad guy in the story. He shrugs again. Thinks about what he said about Connor’s recovery, what would've happened if he hadn’t. “I just, said some hurtful stuff when he didn’t see it like that.”

They’re both silent for a bit, letting the conversations on the TV take up the room. Then Sam knocks his elbow against his. “Apologize, then. For the stuff you didn’t mean, at least.”

Jack thinks about Connor’s face, his defensive posture when he’d said, _I want you to go._ It sets off a painful jab in his side. He clears his throat, his voice coming out soft when says, “Don’t think he’s gonna want to hear it.”

“Then fuck him,” Sam shrugs, frowning. “Seriously, if it’s just some guy? If he doesn’t want to accept that you think about some things in a way that’s different from his, then it’s not worth it. Besides. He’s from Edmonton. You’re not gonna cry about a guy from Edmonton.” 

That gets a genuine laugh out of Jack. “Fuck off, I’m not crying.” He gives Sam a quiet smile, thankful for the spot of brightness that opens up in his chest. Connor is not just some guy, but he doesn’t say that. “You’re right about the Edmonton part.” 

Sam jerks his head at the window, scoffing derisively at the snow coming down outside. “Of course I am. Honestly, bro, there’s plenty of hot guys in the state of New York that won’t make you feel like shit. Who needs Edmonton? It’s McDavid’s area, for cryin’ out loud.” 

Jack feels his smile fall into something fake. He nods along, though, when Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Yeah, of course. You’re right.”

-

In those first couple of days after, it’s as if the past few months never happened. His and Connor’s texting thread doesn’t continue and there’s no more Words with Friends notifications telling him that Connor has played a word. 

He debated deleting the app off of his phone when he was waiting to board the plane at the airport the morning after. He hadn’t done it, though, dragging it with his thumb into a folder instead. Calls from his parents and his buddies steadily push Connor’s name out of view on his call log, but he still scrolls down sometimes.

They win their two games in Buffalo and his point streak becomes the longest active after the game against Nashville. Sam actively tries to shove him towards some guys when they're out with the team for drinks at a bar, but Jack politely extracts himself every time a guy steps into his personal space.

He tells Sam he’s just not really feeling it, which Jeff overhears and then demands to know what it’s about. When Sam starts to tell Jeff about the broken heart Jack’s got over a failed romance with some asshole Edmontonian, Jack blurts, “Next round’s on me,” and escapes towards the bar. 

Then he gets sick, and it sucks. His point streak is broken, one game shy of the franchise record. It’s a silly thing to get upset about in the grand scheme of things, but he can’t help feeling disappointed about it. 

He watches the game against the Flyers from the couch underneath his pile of blankets, empty strips of aspirin strewn across the coffee table among three half-full glasses of water. 

The game is awful, bordering on unwatchable as they’re down six to nothing after two periods. It makes him feel worse than he already did but he doesn’t change the channel. 

They’re in the third intermission when his phone starts buzzing somewhere underneath his body. He manages to get it out from under him, holding the screen up close to his face.

_CONNOR MCDAVID IS CALLING_

He feels cold sweat break out across his back and it’s not the fever this time. It’s been a little over a week since they last spoke and it all went wrong, but it feels like at least a month hash passed already. His thumb hovers over the screen, eventually declining the call. He brings his phone down again, pressing it face down against his sternum. 

The commercials break up for the intermission analysis by Martin and Brian when his phone buzzes just once, the vibration going through his chest. He looks at it again, notices a voicemail. He opens it and presses his phone against his ear.

“Hey, um, it’s me.” Connor’s voice comes through clear, speaking a little faster than usual. “I know we’re not, um, really talking right now but I saw you were out for tonight. And no one’s saying anything and I thought. Well, we talked about my injury the last time and. It’d just be stupid coincidence if--and it’s probably not--but. I guess I just wanted to ask if you’re okay. So, uh. Please let me know. Bye.” 

He’s taking his phone away from his ear when the screen flashes again.

_CONNOR MCDAVID IS CALLING_

Jack swipes at the green horn this time. “Why are you leaving a message if you’re just gonna call again two minutes later?” 

“Um,” Connor says, sounding abashed. “I thought maybe you’d answer if you were listening to it. And you did, so.” 

Jack sighs, looking up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what to think about Connor apparently knowing him well enough to try this. It worked, too, so maybe it speaks for itself. “And?” he asks. 

“And,” Connor continues, his voice growing firmer. “I wanted to know why you’re out. Are you injured?” 

“You know what this sounds like?” Jack snaps, ignoring Connor’s question. He sits up a little, releasing himself from the grip of his blankets. The tone of Connor’s words is making him feel prickly, as if he hadn’t driven Jack out of his house less than ten days ago. “It sounds like you’re worried about me.” 

“Well,” Connor ventures. “So what if I am?”

“ _So what if_ \--” Jack repeats, an incredulous note creeping into his voice. “Last time I was worried about you, you threw me out. Being worried is not part of, fuck. Whatever this is between us. You made that pretty clear.”

“I didn’t throw you out,” Connor protests, voice skipping on the last word. “I dropped you off and you were perfectly fine.”

Jack scoffs, shaking his head. If Connor’s idea of perfectly fine is tossing and turning for hours and going over the events of that night before falling into a fitful sleep, then yeah, he’d been peachy. 

“Wait,” Connor says then, belated. As if Jack’s words are only now catching up to him. “You were worried about me?” 

“Jesus,” Jack mumbles to himself. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply. A year ago he would’ve taken it back, probably. But he doesn’t. “Yes, you dumbass. I was.”

“Oh,” Connor says, his voice hushed. 

Jack listens to his breathing, noticing the fluttering in his stomach. He really is fucking gone for this guy. It’s the first time he lets the thought fully form in his head, without cutting it off early. It feels significant, his limbs suddenly jittery.

“You deserve to be treated like, I don’t know. Like you matter. Because you do. That’s what I was trying to get across,” he mutters, his fingers playing with the tassels on one of the blankets in his lap. His heart is beating fast in his chest. “Before I, uh, said that stuff about what would happen if you hadn’t recovered. And I'm sorry ‘bout that. It was a dick move.” 

It’s quiet on the other end and Jack lets his eyes wander back to the TV, tracing the play. He may have just showed his heart a little too much. Maybe it has weirded Connor out. 

He pulls his knees up closer to his chest, feeling the headache creep up behind his temples again. A look at the timer on the table tells him it’s almost time for another dose of ibuprofen. 

Connor’s voice comes through just as he’s closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, too. About, you know, making you leave and saying that stuff about the best player in the league. It was all just--a weird night. I was on edge. Nervous, I guess.” 

Jack feels the corner of his mouth lift. “What d’you have to be nervous about?” 

The sound of Connor’s laugh sends a spreading warmth down his spine. Then Connor says, “With you? A whole lot, apparently.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, his mind drawing a blank as a flush covers his cheeks. The timer starts beeping loudly then and he lunges forward, slapping a hand down on it. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, heaving himself off of the coach with a pitiful groan. “That’s for the meds. It’s just a flu, by the way. But I gotta take them if I want to feel kind of alive.” 

He expects Connor’s worry to be sufficiently eased and for him to say his goodbyes, but Connor just says, “Go take them. I’ll wait.” 

He keeps his phone against his ear while he walks over to the kitchen. Connor’s already off on a story about how awful the Flames are while he watches his pills dissolve in water. 

-

They play the Kings at home that weekend. The flu is still lingering in his joints and there’s a heavy edge to every movement he makes. He’s in the line-up, though, wanting to get out there with the team and recover from that awful performance against the Flyers. They come out of it with a win and he extends his personal streak, even if the league doesn’t recognize it officially. 

He’s in his bathroom, swallowing down another pill to soothe the ache in his bones when he hears Connor’s name coming from the TV. He flicks off the lights and walks back into his room, sitting on the edge of his bed. The light coming from the TV gives his room a blue glow. 

The Oilers played the Canadiens tonight and won. Jack gets out of his clothes, listening to the commentary on the game. He lets his pants drop, stepping out of them. 

Connor comes on the screen as he’s getting underneath the covers, the mattress dipping under his weight. Jack leans back against the headboard, a pillow stuffed behind his lower back. 

Connor looks tired, strands of his hair falling into his eyes as he answers the questions of the reporters. Even like this, with sweat glinting across his brow and his beard extending to his neck, unkempt, he looks good. 

Jack feels the electric thrum of it go down his legs. He takes in Connor’s pale skin and the curve of his bottom lip, looking slightly red and raw underneath the lights. He wonders what the shape of Connor’s mouth would feel like, if it would leave brands of warmth across his own skin. 

Connor’s eyes are dark as he listens to a question and it brings up memories from that night in Connor’s house. Before it had gone sideways, he’d had those eyes fixed on him. He’d liked it, too, because Connor’s gaze had been so open and unwavering. He’d felt pinned in the best way, wanting to let Connor step in closer to get a better look. 

His cock is chubbing up in his boxers and he shifts his hand underneath the covers, palming at the base of it. Thinking about Connor in his personal space, pressing him up against the wall with just his presence, it’s doing it for him. 

He’s got his other hand on the remote before he truly registers what he’s doing. He pauses the show, right when Connor’s bringing one hand up to rub at the side of his face. 

He sinks a little deeper against the pillows, curling his thumbs inside the waistband of his boxers to tug them down. His cock isn’t fully hard yet, but he can feel the heat of it when it flops against his lower stomach. 

The elastic of his boxers is tight around his thighs but he doesn’t bother to push them down further, closing his fist around the head of his cock instead. 

It feels good, getting a hand on himself again. The skin is hot to the touch and his cock jerks, responsive. He wasn’t in the mood for it when he was sick, and with the preparation for the LA game, he hadn’t had the time. His cock fills up quickly when he gets a rhythm going, pleasure curling down to his balls. 

His eyes drift back up to the TV to Connor’s face and torso, unmoving. He looks his fill, now that he can. Drinks in the sight of him, wants to suck and bite down on the soft skin behind Connor’s earlobe. Connor’s skin would probably taste salty, the smell of him overwhelming as Jack would press in to get close, closer. 

He thinks about Connor watching him, knowing that he’s getting off to him. His dark eyes watching him, not even blinking. Heat sinks down to his belly and he instinctively spreads his legs. 

“Fuck,” he mutters out between his teeth, into the quiet emptiness of his bedroom. It’s overwhelming, to be able to look at Connor and not having to pull his gaze away. 

Even when he closes them on a slow blink, the colored glow of the TV comes through his eyelids and he knows what’s there, looking back at him. 

He keeps his gaze locked on the image of Connor, watching his long fingers pressed against his beard. He’s only ever kissed a guy once that had a beard. It had rubbed against his upper lip whenever he had deepened the kiss, and he’d felt the sting of it when he’d gone out for Mexican with Jeff the night after. 

He wants Connor to do the same to him, to do more. To push and drag his cheek against the soft skin of his inner thighs as he puts his mouth on Jack.

His rhythm is faltering already as he speeds up, pressing his thumb against the underside of the head. A drop of pre-come trickles from the slit, down the length of his thumb. He twists his grip at the head, feeling the quiver of it in his thighs. He uses his other hand to rub at his balls, the tension making them feel heavy and plump. 

He wants the release, wants to have Connor’s hands on him and his mouth near his ear. Talking to him, asking him what he wants and telling him how good he feels. How good Jack is to him. Connor’s fingers pressing past his rim, staring down at him with those deep brown eyes while he comes apart. His lips pressed against Jack’s, his tongue hot and slick inside his mouth before pulling back, whispering, urging, “C’mon, lemme see. Show me.” 

His orgasm hits him and he presses the back of his head into the pillow. He keeps jerking his cock, come splattering against his stomach and coating his fingers. A groan escapes through his lips when the last of it dribbles down his cock. 

He feels the stickiness of it on his skin and he lets his fingers drop on his stomach. A sigh leaves his lips as he relaxes against the bed, his chest rising and falling along with his quick breathing. 

He wipes his fingers against his skin before dropping his arm beside the bed, feeling around for his discarded undershirt on the floor. He brings it up and uses it to wipe off his stomach, using his other hand to clean up his fingers. 

His body feels warm all over but his cheeks flame when he grabs the remote to turn the TV off, the room suddenly going completely dark. It’s a comfort, too, because he can let the post-orgasm sluggishness take over, feeling content as he presses his red cheek into the pillow. 

-

They lose to the Lightning again on New Year’s Eve after going up 4-1 at the beginning of the second period. It’s a shitty end to the year, but at least they’re at home. A few of the guys come over to his house after the game, with barely half an hour left on 2019. 

Sam’s coordinating pictures of Jeff and Jimmy both holding balloons shaped in a two and zero in front of the Christmas tree, while Jack’s in the kitchen with Marcus. He pulls out the champagne glasses Jessie got him when he bought the house. He’s not proud of the fact that he has to take them out of the cardboard box they came in. 

His housekeeper made sure to put three bottles of champagne in the fridge and Marcus is sitting at the kitchen island, peering at a tutorial on his phone on how to open a champagne bottle without the stuff going everywhere. 

He’s just set the last glass down on the counter top when his phone starts moving across the surface, buzzing with an incoming call. He covers it with his palm before Marcus can read the name displayed on the screen. 

“One sec, gotta take this,” he says, walking out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He moves over to the stairs and sits down on one of the steps, taking out his phone. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” Connor says, background noise filtering through the phone. There’s a disappointed tone to his words when he asks, “Am I too late already?” 

Jack leans sideways against the wall, getting comfortable. He likes having the sound of Connor's voice back in his ear again. “Late for what?” 

“New year’s,” Connor says. “I’m in my car, just got done with the game. Haven’t even really looked at the time.”

“Oh, um,” Jack glances at the clock hanging above the table in the hallway. There’s a warm flutter in his chest, thinking about Connor wanting to wish him a happy new year. “No, you didn’t miss it. Twenty-two minutes left on this side of the continent.” 

“Well.” Connor sounds pleased. “Happy new year, then. In twenty-two minutes.”

“Same to you. In two hours,” Jack says. “You got some wild things planned to close off the decade?” 

Connor snorts, the sound of it making Jack smile down at his feet. “Not really. We’re flying out tomorrow morning already, so.”

Jack nods, rubbing his toes against the carpet of the stairs. They’re playing each other again on the 2nd, in Buffalo this time. He’s been trying not to think about it too much. It makes him feel jittery and on edge, the idea of having Connor in his arena, in his city. He wants to reach out, pull Connor in, but. 

With the way last time went, he wonders if maybe they should just keep it going like this. Long distance, over the phone with no face-to-face communication. That worked for them for months. Meeting each other off the ice is what messed that up. 

He misses the sight of Connor, though. He gets memories from last time at random moments during day to stop him in his tracks. Connor being in Buffalo confronts him with how much he wants to have the whole thing. Still, if keeping Connor in his life means never seeing him again off the ice, he’ll take it. 

“That’s what I’m calling about, by the way,” Connor pipes up, shaking Jack out of his thoughts. He sounds guarded when he continues, “We’ll probably land in Buffalo late in the afternoon. And we’re flying out to Boston almost immediately after the game, so I thought. Maybe, we could. Meet up?” 

Jack looks up from his feet, staring at the front door and the sliver of light coming through the small window. “You’d want that?” he asks, his voice coming out steadier than he feels. “To come over?”

“Yeah, I would,” Connor breathes. It’s silent for a bit and then he says, “If anything goes wrong, you can always kick me out, y’know. Return the favor.” 

It’s a joke, but. Jack can hear the vulnerable tone behind it. It feels raw to him, too. This is another chance at trying to make this thing work, even though it’s possible it never will. It’s gonna hurt more, this time, if it doesn’t. 

He musters up some humor in his voice when he says, “At least in Buffalo you won’t freeze to death within fifteen minutes.” 

“Small blessings.” The seconds stretch out before Connor asks, “So, does that mean. You want to?”

Jack takes in a deep breath, looks at the couple of minutes until midnight that are left. “Yeah. You can come over to mine. When you get the chance to. I don’t really know how you guys plan your game days.”

“Oh, it’s,” Connor says quickly, a throaty tone to his voice. “It’s a bit more relaxed now, with the schedule going crazy. I’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

Jack shakes his head a little, a nervous laugh bubbling up inside of him. Connor’s gonna be right here, in his hallway. In less than a day. The thought gets him right to the edge of freaking out.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, sure,” he says. He hears Sam calling out his name from the living room. Another glance at the clock tells him it’s two minutes until midnight. “I, uh, gotta go. Marcus is popping the champagne in two minutes. I don’t want him to crack my TV.”

Connor’s soft chuckle makes his heart clench up in anticipation. “Okay, I’ll let you go,” he says, the smile still present in his voice. “Happy new year, Jack. See you tomorrow.” 

Jack tells him the same before ending the call. He gets up off the stairs and walks back into the living room. 

Marcus has already got his hands wrapped around the neck of a champagne bottle while Jeff is leaning away slightly, looking concerned. They start chanting down from twenty when the countdown appears on TV. Sam stands next to him, slinging an arm around his neck as he shouts in his ear. 

At zero, Marcus twists his hands and sends the cork flying across the living room. It hits a bauble on the Christmas tree. There’s the sound of glass breaking and Marcus is holding the champagne spray towards Jeff who dashes out of the way.

Sam’s laughing, turning towards Jack while Marcus chases Jeff around the couch. “Idiots. What a way to start the new year, though, right?” 

Jack grins, looking at Jeff running away from Marcus. He nods and thinks about tomorrow.

-

It’s almost noon when he pushes back the curtains from the window. It snowed during the night and he squeezes his eyes shut against the brightness of the sunlight reflecting off of it. 

Sam’s frying eggs and bacon on the stove, putting down two plates when Jack walks into the kitchen. The other guys went home around three in the morning but Sam had crashed in the guestroom. 

They don’t talk much as they shovel their breakfast into their mouths, both of them scrolling through Instagram and texting people various versions of wishes for new year. The food manages to get him going and he makes them both green smoothies to compensate for all the grease. 

Sam leaves around two and Jack spends the rest of the afternoon tidying up his living room. He's just finished sweeping up the shards from the broken baubles underneath the Christmas tree when a text comes in. 

_already at the hotel,_ Connor has texted him. _gonna eat some dinner before coming over._

There’s a curl of nervous anticipation in his stomach, knowing that Connor’s only a short ride away. He looks around the living room. It’s fully restored to its normal state and he has nothing left to do for the rest of the day. 

He’s not looking forward to sitting around on the couch to wait while his nerves wreak havoc on his insides. A quick look in his fridge solidifies it for him.

_you could eat at mine if you want_

He leans against the counter while he waits for Connor’s reply, staring into garden. Maybe he won’t be too distracted by Connor’s presence in his house if he’s focused on making them a decent dinner. Giving McJesus food poisoning the night before they play each other will land him a trip straight to hell, after all. 

His phone buzzes with Connor’s incoming text. _sounds good. what’s your address?_

He sends a text back with a few thumbs up emojis and attaches his address. A quick look at the digital clock above the oven tells him that it’s past five already. Depending on the hotel the Oilers are staying at, Connor will likely be here within half an hour. 

There’s a few classic rock songs coming over the radio that he hums along to, preparing the vegetables to put into the casserole. 

He’s nearly done, washing the last couple of tomatoes when he hears a car door close outside. The kitchen window gives him a view of the street and he looks up, seeing the gray cab parked along the curb. 

Connor is stepping out of the car, wearing the same black coat he was wearing last time. He’s got a beanie pulled over his hair. Jack watches him say something to the driver before turning around, his hands pressed deep into the pockets of his coat. He makes his way up the path to the front door, leaving footsteps in the snow. 

The sharp ring of the doorbell startles Jack, even though he was expecting it. 

He puts the tomatoes down and dries his hands on a towel. As he walks into the hallway, he can see Connor stand near the door through the narrow window beside it. His heartbeat is going faster now, the thump of it echoing in his ears. 

He pulls the door open, feels the cold air meeting his face. “Hey,” he says, the word leaving his lips on an exhale. 

The corner of Connor’s mouth turns upwards, the beanie pushing a few strands of hair flat against the side of his face. “Hey.” 

Jack turns sideways, extending an arm inside. He breathes in as Connor steps inside, catching his scent when Connor’s shoulder brushes against his chest. 

Connor’s looking at him when he turns around, and all he’s doing is stand inside Jack’s hallway but it feels significant. It’s a sight he never thought he'd get to see and now that he’s looking at it, it hits him right behind his sternum. 

“Was your flight okay?” Jack asks, while Connor takes off his coat. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater underneath and a pair of dark wash jeans.

“Yeah, it was okay. Coach did a whole new year’s speech during takeoff and almost fell over,” Connor says, hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes. He follows Jack down the hallway and into the living room, looking around. “It smells really good in here.” 

Jack smiles, pride blooming in his chest. He jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen. “I was just about to finish up our dinner. That’s why it’s a mess in here,” he says, walking back towards his tomatoes. “You want something to drink?” 

“Water’s good, thanks,” Connor says, leaning his hip against the counter as his eyes skim across the stuff Jack’s put out on the kitchen top. “I thought you were just gonna heat something up from a meal service. This looks kinda intense.” 

“It’s just lasagna,” Jack shrugs, taking a bottle of water from the fridge. He puts it down in front of Connor. “It’s healthy lasagna, though. Pretty sure it fits your meal plan, too, once it’s done.” 

“Take your time,” Connor says, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a sip. His eyes dart back towards the living room. “Do you mind if I look around?” 

Jack’s mind races through all the embarrassing stuff he or his teammates could’ve left behind in the living room that he missed during clean up this afternoon. There’s only the pictures of him and Jessie on the wall, with both of them crying in the park because they dared each other to eat sand. That’s okay, though, he figures. They’re pretty funny pictures.

He nods at Connor, waving a hand in the direction of the living room. “Sure, go ahead. The remote is somewhere on the couch if you wanna watch some TV.”

He turns back towards the tomatoes, slicing them in cubes and adding them to the pot on the stove. He can hear Connor walking around, the occasional creak of the wooden planks beneath his feet betraying his location in the living room. 

The oven starts beeping then, so he takes the vegetables and the meat sauce off the stove. He ladles the mixture into the dish with a layer of cheese on top and slides it into the oven, setting the timer to half and hour. Jack walks out of the kitchen and stands still.

Connor’s standing next to the bookcase that has books wedged into every nook and cranny, the bottom shelf holding a crooked pile of board games. He watches him move over to the piano in the corner of the room. Connor hasn’t heard him, his eyes fixed on the songbook he picks up in his hands. Jack swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. 

Connor’s presence in his house feels immense, right then. Ever since they started talking, he’s become conscious of all the parts of his life that he shares with Connor. Spaces in his life that belong to them both. 

They sit in the same visitors’ locker rooms on road trips. They skate across the same ice, in the same arenas. They see the same fans when they look up into the stands. They share all of that, just never at the same time. But now they’re here, in his house, and this has become one of those spaces, too.

He doesn’t know what expression has taken over his face, but Connor turns around and gives him a smile in response. 

“I didn’t know you play the piano,” he says, holding up the songbook before putting it back down on the music rack. He lets his fingers glide past the keys. A C-note fills up the living room as he presses down with his index finger. 

Jack pulls a face. “I wouldn’t call it playing, what I do on that thing. My piano teacher’s probably gonna fire me any day now, even though I’m the one paying her.” 

Connor lets out an actual laugh at that and it makes Jack feel warm inside, seeing Connor so unrestrained around him. He doesn’t think there’s many people who've seen that laugh in recent years and it makes him feel oddly protective, wanting to keep it special. 

“I also saw you bought that jacuzzi you were talking about last summer,” Connor says, nodding his head towards the garden. 

Jack nods. “Yeah, I figured why not, right? The garden’s big enough for it,” he says, looking outside as well. He bites down on his lower lip, not looking at Connor when he offers, “We could go into it after dinner, if you want?” 

“Oh.” There’s a surprised note in Connor’s voice. He looks sideways at Jack. “That’d be fun. I didn’t really bring anything other than my wallet, though.”

“You, uh,” Jack says, swallowing. “You could wear one of my trunks. I have, like, a thousand.”

“Yeah?” Connor meets his eyes, and Jack doesn’t miss the glint he sees it them. “Okay.”

“No problem,” Jack shrugs, feeling the back of his neck heat up. “Wanna watch some TV before dinner’s done?” 

“Sure,” Connor nods. “Maybe no hockey?” 

Jack grins, sitting down on the couch. He expects Connor to take the opposite corner but Connor sits down close to him. “Good idea," he says. "There’s probably a rerun of the Office somewhere.” 

Their knees touch when Jack leans forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. Connor doesn’t move his leg when Jack straightens and neither does he. 

-

It turns out that Connor has never seen an episode of the Office in his life, which Jack thinks explains a lot about him. He sets out the general premise of the show and Connor seems to be into it, chuckling along to the jokes. He’s also getting more comfortable on Jack’s couch, with one foot pulled under his other thigh as he leans back against the cushions. 

Jack can’t help but sneak a few glances sideways, as if his brain wants him to keep checking that Connor is there. His eyes are drawn to the delicate knob of Connor’s bare ankle, not completely tucked under his thigh and peeking out from under the leg of his jeans. 

They keep a steady conversation while they watch, talking about Lenny and Connor’s dinner date with Dylan and Alex in Chicago. They trade some playful barbs about the All Star weekend coming up, both of them going head to head again for Fastest Skater. 

Connor’s shoulder is warm and solid against his own and he’s leaning in, showing Jack pictures on his phone of Lenny wearing socks in the snow. 

The timer on the oven beeps halfway through the second episode and Jack gets up to take the casserole out of the oven. Connor’s already standing behind him, having found the plates. They fill up them with lasagna and take them back to the couch.

Their thighs are pressed flush together when they sit down and Jack makes sure not to shift too much. He presses play on the remote. 

“This is really good,” Connor says, licking the red sauce from his lips. Steam is rising up from his plate. He gives Jack a small smile before he blows on the new bite he’s scooped up with his fork.

Jack burns the roof of his mouth when he pushes his own bite into his mouth on a reflex. At least he has something to blame his rosy cheeks on if Connor were to wonder. He grabs a glass of water from the coffee table and takes a few gulps. 

He’s shared dinner and relaxed on the couch with friends before, obviously, but it never felt this loaded. The handful of guys he actually took back to his house only saw his bedroom and his bathroom, maybe the kitchen. He’s never watched episodes of the Office with them, their bodies connecting at multiple points while they stuffed their faces with lasagna. None of them ever went to grab the book he was reading from the side table, eyes skimming along the back of it like Connor’s did.

Or taken their empty plates to the kitchen and rinsing them off, like Connor is doing right now. Jack lets his eyes go over Connor’s body as Connor bends down to put the plates and the cutlery in the dishwasher. Getting Connor half-naked is incredibly important, suddenly.

“Wanna come up?” Jack asks, trying to sound as casual as he can be in this moment. “We can change upstairs while the jacuzzi heats up.” 

Connor nods and follows him up the stairs to his bedroom. He walks through the door next to the bathroom, into his closet. Connor lets out a soft whistle, looking around. “That’s a lot of clothes.”

Jack tugs open a drawer and takes out a pair of swimming trunks. “It’s mostly suits. I get, like, six made before every season. Another one before All Star Weekend.” 

“I know,” Connor says, reaching over and tracing the plaid pattern of Jack’s dark green suit. “You wore this one last year, right?” 

He doesn’t really know what to say. What to do with the information that Connor apparently remembers what he wore a year ago, to an event where they mostly ignore each other for two straight days. 

So he just nods, and then gestures down at the drawer. “My trunks are in here. There’s a couple with drawstrings, so they should fit.” 

The smile Connor sends his way is making him fully aware of the tight space they’re in, and that Connor’s about to be naked in there. Heat is crawling up his neck so he makes another aborted motion at the drawer before turning around on his heel, getting out of there. 

He changes in the bathroom himself, getting out of his clothes quickly. The mirror above the sink shows him the blotchy red tinge in his neck that’s spreading up to his cheeks. 

He stalks out the bathroom and looks at the door to the closet, which is still closed. Any minute now, Connor’s going to be standing shirtless in his bedroom and wearing his clothes, and he’s already acting like an idiot. 

“I’m gonna check if the water’s hot enough,” he calls out. “Just come down when you’re ready.” 

He doesn’t stick around to listen to Connor’s reply, going down the stairs and heading outside. 

It’s completely dark out already, so he turns on the garden lights that are attached to the roof of the shed. The blue lights on the floor of the jacuzzi illuminate the steam rising up from the hot water. 

The temperature outside causes goosebumps to rise on his skin. He can feel the cold from the ground against the soles of his feet. The water is pleasantly warm to the touch when he drops his hand in, weaving it around. He hears the door open and close again, and turns around. 

Connor is wearing a blue pair of swimming trunks that hang low on his hips. Jack can see the sharp cut of his muscles disappearing into the waistband. He swallows, trying to avert his eyes before Connor fully steps into the low light around the jacuzzi. 

“God, it’s cold,” Connor mutters between his teeth, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes briefly go over Jack before he fixes them somewhere at his shoulder. “Temperature’s good?” 

Jack nods, his throat still dry. “Yeah, let’s get in,” he says. He puts one foot on the little step and lifts his other leg over the edge. The water feels perfect and he lets himself sink further into it, sitting down. 

He doesn’t think about it, just reaches out his hand towards Connor. Connor takes it, his fingers gripping tightly and Jack can feel the same calluses on their palms. Connor also gets in and sits down next to Jack, the water sloshing around as they get settled.

“Good, right?” Jack checks, noticing the small tells in Connor’s face and the way his shoulders go lax. 

Connor hums, leaning his head back. Jack watches him look up at the night’s sky. The hair at the nape of his neck hangs in the water, and there’s droplets clinging to his collarbones. He lets his eyes linger there, on the collarbone that Connor broke in their rookie year. 

He can feel the coarse hairs on Connor’s leg against his own, touching again. It’s not something he does consciously, and he doesn’t think Connor does it either. It just feels right, natural. To have this point of physical connection between them now, when they’re usually so far apart. 

He looks his fill and Connor lets him, his eyes open as he’s still looking up. Jack lets his gaze glide down Connor’s chest to where the water comes, and further down. He looks at Connor’s legs, which are slim for a hockey player. 

The edge of his kneecaps is pronounced and Jack bites down on the inside of his cheek, looking at the left one. From the periphery of his vision, he can see Connor tilting his head up again, his eyes fixing on Jack.

“You can’t see anything, right?” Connor says, his voice coming out soft, only for Jack to hear. 

Jack meets his eyes and shakes his head slowly, knows what Connor’s talking about. “Pretty crazy. You sort of expect a scar or something. With how bad it was.” 

“If I’d had the surgery there probably would’ve been,” Connor says, propping his foot up on the bench. His knee is above the surface now. Jack looks at the unmarred skin, no signs that give an indication of the pain Connor went through. 

Connor is shifting a little, angling his body more towards him. He rests his arm along the edge of the jacuzzi. Jack can feel the pads of Connor’s fingers against the back of his neck. He lets his head tilt back just slightly, pushing into the touch. His heart is racing in his chest.

“I really like this,” Connor says. His voice is low, like he’s admitting something. 

Jack hums, trading a hand through the warm water. “Yeah, it’s good. I don’t go in as often as I want. But when I do, it’s really great.”

“No, I mean.” Connor is silent for a few seconds. His dark eyes meet Jack’s and the presence of his fingers against his neck seems to get a little firmer. “This. Spending time with you, when it’s just the two of us. I always thought I would.” 

“Oh,” Jack breathes. He’s not able to look away from Connor’s gaze. “What do you mean, you always thought?” 

Connor gives a shrug with his left shoulder. His cheeks are mostly covered by his beard, but Jack can see the pink flush on Connor’s cheekbones. “I always used to think, y’know. Before the draft. I just, wanted to get to know you. You were really funny and you got along with everybody. You never seemed to get nervous.” 

Jack snorts, feeling the smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I got plenty nervous. You didn’t really know me, then.”

“You didn’t let me.” 

He feels pinned by the direct look Connor’s giving him. “I never thought you’d wanted to,” he says, slowly. 

Connor averts his eyes, aiming the self-deprecating smile on his lips towards the water. “Do you remember, like, right before the draft? You were rooming with Marns, complaining ‘bout it the whole time, too. Marns told you to text me to come over to play video games. And you texted Dylan, instead.” 

Jack stays silent, remembering the moment. Remembers the confused look on Connor’s face before he’d turned back towards the TV, killing Mitch on Call of Duty. 

He thinks on it longer now, the expression that came over Connor’s face when Mitch had all but exposed Jack’s diversion tactics when it came to Connor. Maybe it wasn’t just confusion in Connor’s eyes, but also disappointment. Hurt. 

“That’s when I sort of thought, y’know,” Connor continues, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “You didn’t want to put in effort for us to get to know each other. As more than just, rivals, I guess. So I figured we’d just stick to our own space.” 

Jack breathes out slowly, feels the tendrils of indignation crawling up in his chest. It’s more habit, though, than actual feeling. He takes another deep breath, mulling over Connor’s words in his head. 

“You’re right,” he says, forcing himself to look Connor in the eye. “I put you at a distance. Subconsciously, I guess, but also on purpose. Somehow. You think I wasn’t nervous, but I was. Mostly because of you being there, everywhere. If it wasn’t the media or the guys reminding me of you, then I did it myself.” 

“It mostly seemed like you were just ignoring me,” Connor admits, his brown eyes soft and genuine. 

The wind is picking up a little, sending a cold chill down Jack's spine. He ducks a little deeper into the water, looking down at his hands curled up in his lap. He can feel the pulsating beat of his heart in his wrists. “Have you ever ignored someone?” he asks, then. 

Connor gives him a confused look, his lips slightly pursed. 

"It kinda takes a lot of effort," Jack mutters, smiling a little. His throat feels tight but he continues, wants Connor to know this. "You think I didn't notice you, when I knew exactly where you were at all times. I still do."

The words hang in the cold air, silence stretching between them. There's another gust of wind and Jack feels it blow through his wet hair. He suppresses a shiver and looks back at Connor, who has an unreadable expression on his face.

"It's getting colder. We should get out," Jack says. He looks around, wondering where he'd dropped the towels when he realizes he forgot to bring any. "We're gonna have to sprint upstairs to the bathroom, I think. Forgot the towels." 

He stands up in the jacuzzi, losing the point of contact between Connor's fingers and his neck. Water runs down his torso, cooling quickly. His teeth chatter a little. 

"Yeah, let's get inside," Connor says. The palm of his hand is warm when it closes around Jack's forearm, helping him get out. 

Jack makes sure Connor's feet are steady on the ground again as well, before turning around and darting inside. He goes through the kitchen, hearing the wet slap of his and Connor's bare feet on the tiles. They hurry up the stairs, water dripping down their legs. 

The light in the bathroom is bright when Connor flicks the switch. Compared to the sounds outside, the bathroom is quiet. Jack bends down to grab the large towels from under the sink, handing one to Connor. 

He covers his own face with the towel, drying his hair. It allows him a few seconds to calm down his breathing, get his emotions under control without Connor being able to see it all play out on his face. 

He startles when Connor’s fingers gently enclose around his wrist, and he drags the towel away from his face. Connor is standing so close, his feet in between Jack’s. 

He’s looking at Jack, his eyes darting down to his lips and back up again. Jack can feel the heat coming from Connor's bare chest on his own skin, sees the water droplets on his cheeks, clinging to his beard.

Connor's hand circles completely around his wrist and he brings his other hand up to Jack's neck, sliding his fingers around the back of it. His thumb presses up under Jack's jawline. 

"I notice you, too, still. All the time," Connor mutters. 

Jack feels the want that’s been sizzling low in his stomach all evening surge up in his chest. He lets himself lean in closer, pressing his mouth against Connor’s in a kiss. 

Connor’s lips are slightly chapped but warm against his own. There’s the weight of Connor’s hand on his neck, his fingers tightening when he tilts Jack’s head to fit their lips better. He feels the breath Connor lets out through his nose ghost across his cheek. 

Connor’s hand releases his wrist and slides across his back to his waist, pulling Jack tight against him. He can feel the touch of Connor’s stomach pressing against him, the strip of hair leading down from his navel rubbing against his own. The edge of the counter is cold against his hip and he leans against it, allowing the muscles in his back to go slack. 

The kiss gets firmer, more slick. His heart is racing in his chest, spreading warmth throughout his body. He reaches out with his hands, feeling the bare skin of Connor’s back underneath his fingertips. The muscles in Connor’s shoulders move as he gets both his arms around Jack’s waist, caging him in against the counter. 

All the tension that he’s felt building up between them, the nerves that were awakened by the touches they’ve traded between them, it’s all sparking off now that he’s got Connor here. Standing between his legs, their hips pushed together as he drags his mouth away from Jack’s, pressing his lips against his cheekbone. 

“Fuck.” Jack lets out a breathy chuckle, a giddy feeling overcoming him. 

Connor presses another kiss against his cheekbone before pulling back, meeting Jack’s eyes. There’s a glint in his own that is almost playful. Jack knows his face must be red, hot to the touch when Connor brings his hand up to cup his cheek. 

He doesn’t look away, though, taking in Connor’s mussed up hair and the rosy flush spreading down his bare chest. He looks so good, Jack thinks, feeling the attraction simmer low in his stomach. 

“I kinda,” Connor says, his soft voice filling up the silent bathroom. “Wanted to do that. For a while.”

Jack slides his hands down Connor’s back, mapping out the skin. He drags his thumbs down Connor’s ribs, dipping the tips of his fingers underneath the waistband of the swimming trunks. The top of Connor’s ass is wet and cool to the touch, making him want to grab a handful of it in each palm. He lets himself look down Connor’s body, tongue darting out to chase the taste of Connor on his lips. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, an encouraging lilt to the word. He tries to trace his own memories, trying to think of the moment he first noticed the jut of Connor’s jawline or the lean line of his body. If it’s in his mind somewhere, he can’t find it. Maybe it’s always been there, right underneath his skin. “Me too. Thought about it.”

Connor meets Jack’s eyes in a heated gaze. “About what?” 

Jack smirks, tightening his grip on Connor’s hips. “I’d rather you show me,” he says, closing the small distance between them. 

Arousal rolls down his spine when Connor deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into Jack’s mouth. It gets filthy quick, their tongues sliding together as their breathing comes out harsher. 

Jack can feel his cock hardening in his trunks, the thin, wet layer doing nothing to conceal it. It seems to spur Connor on. He moves his lips to Jack’s neck, his mouth a hot brand on his skin. 

His toes curl when Connor’s darts his tongue out, caressing the spot he was sucking at. He lets out a groan, his fingers finding their way to Connor’s hair. The strands are soft, the perfect length to tug at while Connor’s lips continue their way down to his collarbones. 

“Davo, c’mon,” Jack breathes out, pulling a little at Connor’s hair. “Bedroom, right there.” 

Connor straightens, fastening his mouth to the skin behind Jack’s ear. He makes a reluctant noise but he pulls them out of the bathroom. He moves his hands to the waistband of Jack’s trunks, tilting his head back so their eyes can meet. “Can I?” he asks. 

Jack presses his toes into the carpet of his bedroom floor, thankful that he’d closed the blinds earlier. Connor’s warm hands above the swell of his ass make him feel shaky with want. 

He nods, pressing a quick kiss to Connor’s lips before stepping back. While he unties the drawstring on his own trunks, he keeps his eyes on Connor. 

His fingers skip on the knot when Connor pushes the trunks down his hips, stepping out of them. He eyes the flex of Connor’s quads, the pale curve of his ass. Connor’s cock is getting hard, too, the flesh a deep pink color as it hangs between his legs. 

He’s caught then, Connor looking up. A knowing smile spreads on his lips and he steps closer, pushing Jack’s fingers away from the knot. He unties it himself, while Jack stares at his deft fingers dipping further past his waistband with every tug. 

The knot comes loose and Connor pushes the trunks down Jack’s thighs, allowing him to step out of them. Connor’s hands come back up, cupping his ass. His palms are big and warm against his skin, his fingers spread wide. 

The feeling makes a shiver run down Jack’s back, his cock getting harder. He pushes into Connor’s touch, bringing one arm up around Connor’s neck. 

“What do you want?” Connor asks, his voice low. He presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth, the tips of his fingers barely dipping into the crack of Jack’s ass. 

Jack can feel the heat of Connor’s cock against his hip, the shape of it growing larger and firmer. He wants that, everywhere. He wants to let Connor inside, let his cock push into him. In his mouth, but his ass, too. He hasn’t done that a lot, blowjobs usually being the farthest he goes with a guy.

It’s the night before the game, though, and it’s a lot. To go from uncertain friendship to, to whatever this is within one evening. 

“I wanna get your fingers inside me.” He encircles his hand around the base of Connor’s cock as he says it, feeling the weight of it in his palm. “And I wanna suck you off first.”

Connor’s flush goes darker, as does the look in his eyes. He nods once before pressing their lips together again, plunging his tongue into Jack’s mouth. He steers them both towards the bed, pushing Jack to lie down on it. 

Jack relishes in the feeling when Connor lies down on top of him, covering his body. He feels the tingles of it down to his toes. Connor’s still taking his nearly every breath, his kisses rapt in their attention to Jack’s lips. His hands are almost reverent as they slide across Jack’s body, getting familiar with every curve and edge. 

Connor rolls them over eventually, resting his head back on the pillow with a sigh. He moves a hand across Jack’s shoulder, settling his fingers at the nape of his neck. 

The point of contact feels nice on his skin as he moves down Connor’s body. There’s not a lot of softness on Connor, but the flesh on the insides of his thighs catches Jack’s attention. He traces a path with his tongue there, sucking a few kisses against the skin while his fingers briefly dip at the back of Connor’s knees. 

The heat in Connor’s eyes makes room for something a little softer when Jack presses his lips against his left knee. 

He meets Connor’s eyes when he drags his hand back up, closing it around Connor’s cock. It’s a nice length, not too thick. The head is pink and shiny, inviting. Jack lowers his head and closes his lips around the tip, his tongue dipping into the slit. 

Connor grits out a curse between his teeth, his eyes still fixed on Jack. “Fuck, you look good like that.”

Jack feels his cheeks flame, taking in more of Connor’s length. He breaks the eye contact as he focuses on getting Connor’s cock wet. The taste of him is good, slightly salty and tangy on the flat of his tongue, making his mouth water. He moves his lips further down, hollowing his cheeks as he swallows. 

Connor’s hand tightens at the back of his neck, another groan slipping from his lips. Jack likes it, enjoys the rush he gets from knowing that Connor’s so into this. 

He pulls off a little, letting the head of Connor’s cock rest on his bottom lip. Spit gathers on his tongue and he makes sure it’s wet and slick when he guides Connor’s cock down his throat again. 

The hand that’s not wrapped around the base of Connor’s cock lies across his stomach, his pinky dipping in Connor’s navel. Connor grabs onto it on a particular hard suck, lacing their fingers together and pressing it down. With one hand occupied, Jack brings the other down to palm Connor’s balls. 

Jack knows Connor’s trying to keep still but the combination of Jack’s tongue pressing against the head of his cock and the fingers on his balls must make it near impossible. 

Connor’s nudging his hips up just a little, easing the head of his cock towards the back of Jack’s throat. He lets his jaw go slack, wanting to guide Connor’s cock down further, his balls getting closer to Jack’s chin. 

“Jack,” Connor whines, his hips making another hitch, his cock slipping further down. “You should see yourself. Fuck. Your ass.” 

A moan slips out and he arches his back, pushing his ass up more. One look up at Connor tells him Connor notices it, watching him. The move makes his cock press into the bed and the friction on the sensitive head has him groaning around Connor’s length in his mouth. 

“Wait, don’t,” Connor breathes out, his hand moving into Jack’s hair. “I wanna get you off later, just. I’m close already.” 

The slight commanding tone behind Connor’s voice sends a burst of arousal down Jack’s spine. He stops moving his hips and tries to get Connor’s cock in deeper. 

Connor’s balls press against his chin this time, the head of Connor’s cock at the back of his throat. He feels the burn behind his eyes, staying still before drawing back. Wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes and he blinks it away. 

He pulls back slightly when he feels the tension in Connor’s stomach underneath his hand. Connor’s fingers are tight in his hair, a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. His tongue laps up the pre-come as he focuses on the head of Connor’s cock, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks.

“Shit, you’re good,” Connor sighs. “Gonna make me come.” 

Jack preens under the praise, his face going blotchy. He brings his hand up from Connor’s balls to circle around the base of his cock, keeping his mouth working at the head. 

There’s the telltale tremble in Connor’s thighs that tells him he’s about to come. He closes his lips around the head, working his fist up and down. His cock twitches in Jack’s grip when his orgasm hits, warm spurts of come hitting the flat of his tongue. Connor hands tighten around his wrist and in his hair, a throaty moan coming from his lips. 

Jack moves his hand gently up and down, milking the last of it from the head. He swallows once, twice, and Connor makes a noise at the sight. 

His throat burns slightly when he pulls off, letting himself roll over onto his back to catch his breath. His chest rises and falls with every gulp of air he fills his lungs with. Connor moves down the bed, his naked body a warm line alongside Jack’s. 

He knows there’s a smile on his face when Connor slides a hand in his neck, tilting his head sideways. Connor’s smiling, too. His face is smooth and his shoulders are relaxed. 

The kiss between them is languid as they trade breaths and let their tongues slide against each other. Connor kisses like there’s nothing else going on, his focus completely on Jack as he presses slow, open-mouthed kisses against Jack’s lips. 

Jack feels the fullness of his own cock, sensitive to every brush of air that passes it. He makes a noise against Connor’s mouth. “C’mon, Davo. I need.” 

Connor nods, getting his hand around Jack’s cock. Jack pushes up into the tight channel, feeling his toes curl. It feels surreal, to finally have Connor’s long fingers and strong hand on his cock. He looks down between them, sees the flushed head of his cock pushing up into Connor’s fist. 

“Do you have lube?” Connor asks, his mouth pressed against Jack’s temple.

Jack nods, gesturing towards a side table. He pushes down the noise that wants to escape from his throat when Connor rolls away, the side of his body suddenly exposed to the cool air. 

The warm hand Connor curls around his hip centers him again, and he rolls onto his side. He feels Connor’s body slotting close behind him and brings his knee up the bed. 

Connor palms the flesh of his ass, squeezing it before pulling one cheek to the side, exposing his hole. 

“You good?” Connor mutters, close to his ear. “How many--”

“Just two,” Jack breathes, impatient to get off now that he doesn’t have Connor’s dick in his mouth anymore, distracting him from his own arousal. “And I’m fine, but you’re making me die of blue balls before you get your fingers inside me.” 

He feels the huff of Connor’s quiet laugh against the back of his neck. “Alright, message received.” 

Jack hears the click of the cap on the lube bottle opening, also registering Connor closing it after a few seconds. Connor’s chest is warm against his back and Jack rests his temple on Connor’s bicep, hitching his knee up a little higher.

The first touch to his hole makes the muscles in his stomach jump. He wills himself to relax as Connor rubs the pad of his middle finger around the tight rim. 

“Okay?” Connor asks, as he applies some pressure. His finger pushes into Jack’s hole until the second knuckle. 

Jack nods. It’s overwhelming, having Connor so close behind him and being exposed to his gaze, his finger pressing completely inside of him. “Yeah, ‘s just. A lot.” 

He hears the soft hum Connor lets out, feels him press a kiss on the skin where his shoulder meets his neck. Something trembles in his chest. Connor crooks his finger a little and a moan slips from his lips, the bundle of nerves inside of him lighting up. He closes his fist around his cock, jerking at the head. 

“Another one,” he demands, the sound coming from between his teeth. 

The slick pressure of Connor’s index finger pushes against his hole immediately, which sends enough pleasure down his spine to almost make him come right there. Connor slowly eases his second finger in and Jack can feel his hole tighten around the stretch. 

Connor seems to know what he’s doing, though, starting to thrust with his hand on a rhythm that makes Jack tremble. Pleasure sparks through his belly every time the pads of Connor’s fingers curl just right. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, moving his hand faster on his cock. He can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine. “‘s good.”

Connor sucks a bruising kiss in his neck, just against his hairline. “You feel so good, tight around me,” he tells him, breath hot in his ear. “C’mon, take what you need.” 

Jack grits his teeth, his jerks going irregular as he pulls at the oversensitive head of his cock. He arches his back, Connor’s fingers slipping in even further. He can feel Connor’s other fingers curled up against his rim, wishes they had the time to fully prep him to take Connor’s cock. 

“Keep them curved,” he tells Connor. “Right up against--”

Connor’s already doing it and Jack cries out, feeling his orgasm travel through his limbs before pushing him over the edge. He jerks himself through it, white ropes of come spurting from the head and covering his fist.

“That’s good,” Connor whispers, fingers still pressed deep inside of him. He has his chin hooked over Jack’s shoulder, a mesmerizing expression on his face as he watches Jack get himself off. “That’s good.” 

Jack feels the tension drain out of his shoulders and he leans back against Connor, letting him take his weight. Connor uses the arm he’s got underneath Jack’s head to brush his hand through his curls, soothing, while Jack catches his breath. A plaintive noise leaves Jack’s lips when Connor eases his fingers out. 

“C’mon, dude,” he protests, when Connor wipes the lube off on his stomach. 

Connor leans over him, taking his mouth in a kiss. “You’re covered in it, anyway,” he smiles. 

He feels too much of everything right now to make a fuss over it, allowing Connor to deepen the kiss. It’s slow and gentle, their warm lips pressing together as they come down. He stretches out along the bed, his legs tangling with Connor’s.

“What time do you have to get back?’ Jack asks after a few minutes, pulling away from the kiss. He keeps his hands on Connor’s chest, smirking when Connor twitches as his thumb rubs at his nipple.

“Um.” Connor tilts his head, looking at the alarm clock on Jack’s nightstand. “Curfew’s in less than hour.” 

A heavy feeling settles in Jack’s stomach, reality creeping back inside the room. “Okay,” he sighs. “Into the shower, then.” 

He gives a halfhearted shove at Connor’s shoulder, but Connor just smiles and gets both his hands wrapped around Jack’s arm. He tugs him along into the bathroom, kissing him against the wall as the warm spray starts. 

They’re too tired to let the showering and the close proximity get away from them, but Jack still takes his time to appreciate the view when Connor gets dressed again. 

He walks down the stairs ahead of Connor, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants himself. He smiles when he feels Connor’s hands close around his shoulders. 

Jack calls a cab while Connor puts on his coat and scarf. The cab will arrive within fifteen minutes and Jack pulls Connor in by the lapels on his coat, determined to make good use of the time. 

A flicker of arousal curls in his belly when Connor crowds into his space, his lack of clothes contrasted by Connor being completely covered up. 

“You know, about tomorrow,” Jack ventures. There’s a clench in his chest as he says it, because he’s tugging them further out of the comfortable space they’ve created here. The expression on Connor’s face sobers, too, but his hands around Jack’s waist remain soft. 

“I just wanted to say,” he continues, his gaze shifting to Connor’s chin. He feels vulnerable, saying it out loud. “This doesn’t change for me. Even when we’re back to, y’know, Eichel and McDavid tomorrow.”

It’s silent for a while, but then Connor presses his thumb under Jack’s chin, making their eyes meet again. He looks fond, taking in Jack’s face before a cheeky smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Even if I score a hat trick tomorrow?” 

Jack groans, exasperation taking over any sentiment he was feeling the moment before. “Then I’ll block you probably,” he retorts, the smile on his face limiting the scowl he wants to put on. “I’m trying to, like, have a moment here and you--”

Connor silences him by capturing his mouth in a kiss, holding Jack in place with a hand behind his head. He lets out a muffled protest against Connor’s lips. It’s for show, though, as he feels his knees shake with every slick move of Connor’s tongue. 

“I know,” Connor mutters against his lips, once he’s pulled back from the kiss. “It’s the same for me.” 

The cab pulls up to the curb then, too soon for Jack’s liking. They share another look and a smile, and he steals a kiss before Connor reluctantly pulls back. 

“I’ll text you when I’m back at the hotel.” Connor walks up to the door, closing his hand around the handle. He looks back at Jack. 

Jack nods, crossing his arms across his chest. Connor’s still looking at him, though, and his smile deepens. “I’ll even stay awake long enough to text back. How’s that?”

It’s clearly what Connor wanted to hear, because he smiles, too. “That’s good.” 

And then he’s gone, the front door closing behind him with a soft click. 

-

He’d spent a lot of time on the ice at the same time as Connor, back when they played against each other in December. They’d had some battles along the boards, too, with Connor’s body hard and shoving at his back. 

That’s not the case tonight, as Ralph puts his line out against Draisaitl instead of Connor. It helps him focus, though, not having to dedicate extra attention to Connor’s unpredictability when they’re playing five-on-five. 

They go down two goals early in the first period, both of them clumsy and unnecessary. He tries to get into the flow of the game but it’s tough, his passes not connecting and the couple of shots he takes go wide or get saved easily by Smith. They manage to tie the game up early in the third, but he watches both goals happen from the bench. 

He looks across sometimes, when he gets off the ice. Connor’s swallowed somewhere in the sea of blue and white. 

There’s one time late in the third period where Jack comes in from his shift and Connor’s swinging his legs over the board to get on, their eyes meeting in a flash. It’s over in less than a second but Jack feels the connection of it settle in his chest as he sits down on the bench, catching his breath. 

The game goes to overtime, just like it did last month. Jack gets possession of the puck behind his own net and meets Sam’s eyes, Connor skating a few feet behind Sam. He jerks his head towards the side and sees Sam go wide, Connor following along. 

That’s when he makes a run for it, dashing up the ice with long strides. He protects the puck with his body, feeling Klefbom’s stick hook around his thigh. Connor catches up to him then and his shot gets blocked, as do the rebounds by Colin and Sam. 

A hooking penalty is called against Klefbom. There’s an electric jolt going through his body as he skates up to center ice to take the penalty shot. The encouragements shouted at him from the bench by his teammates blend together in the cacophony of the crowd. 

He skates up to the goal from the left side, keeps it simple, fires a wrist shot. It goes past Smith and the crowd erupts. 

The goal horn rumbles through the arena while his teammates launch themselves at him, crowding around him while he looks up to the roof and lets out a loud whoop.

He lets Marcus shake him roughly as they go down the tunnel towards the dressing room. His name’s on the whiteboard for media and the cameras are being set up already. He tears off the tape around his pads, sitting down in his stall. 

“Dude,” Sam laughs, walking past with his helmet underneath his arm. He aims a foot at Jack’s shinguard. “That was sick. I had McDavid cursing in my ear when he realized what you were gonna go for.” 

Jack grins, angling his face down as he tugs on the laces of his skates. He can feel the warm glow of pride spreading inside of him. There are no sharp edges to it, like it sometimes used to feel in the past when he played against the Oilers. It’s not about Connor this time, either. He’s happy for himself, for getting another goal. For getting his team another win. 

Which is why he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when one reporter asks him if tonight’s win feels like he’s beating Connor. The question would’ve gotten to him last season. It would’ve made his eyes roll as he failed to keep a glare off of his face. 

And it gets to him now, too, but it’s different. Because the power that these questions used to hold over his and Connor’s relationship has been finally, utterly decimated. He gave Connor an orgasm less than twenty-four hours ago, despite the efforts of the people standing in front of him to keep them squarely opposite one another. 

So he straightens his back and smiles through the question, tells them hockey is the greatest team sport in the world. And he moves on. 

-

Connor keeps his word, too, not allowing any room for Jack’s win to mess up the feeling between them. They’re texting back and forth again the next day. Jack gives Connor some recommendations for restaurants in Boston while Connor waits to board his flight. 

He’s at Jeff’s house with their game of chel on pause while Jeff is grabbing them snacks, when his phone buzzes. Connor has sent him a picture of his food and Jack recognizes the furniture in the background as one of his favorite restaurants.

It makes him sink back against the cushions, looking at the picture. It’d be a PR mess for the both of them if they were spotted there together, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering what it’d be like. 

“Oh, that looks good,” Jeff says, sitting back down onto the couch next to Jack. He pushes a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Where is that?” 

“Black Lamb in Boston.” Jack pushes his phone back into his pocket. “One of my, uh, buddies is there right now.”

Jeff gives him a look, clearly noticing his hesitation. “Right, a buddy,” he nods, pulling his face into a mocking solemn look. “Definitely not some hot guy you’re either already getting with or want to get with.” 

Jack thinks about the edge of Connor’s jaw, the corded strength in his forearms. “Well,” he shrugs, dragging the word out.

It makes Jeff snort out this silly laugh, dimples showing. “I knew it. But that’s awesome, man. At least you’re not moping over that guy from Edmonton anymore.” 

He tilts his head back, taking a long sip from his drink. There’s a pale bruise peeking out over the collar of his hoodie as he does. He swallows, giving Jeff a smile. “Definitely not moping.” 

-

A week and a half later, he’s back in Detroit. They just got in after losing to the Canucks at home. It’s almost one a.m., and he’s dead on his feet. His toothbrush hangs from his lips as he leans against the sink in the bathroom, scrolling through his Twitter. 

There’s a video on his timeline of Connor’s goal against the Flames tonight. Jack absentmindedly moves his toothbrush to the other side of his mouth, watching as Connor flicks the puck right over Noah’s stick and racing it up the ice, getting it past Ritter with a filthy move. “Jesus, Hanny,” he mutters, because Noah can definitely do better than that. 

It’s a beautiful goal, though, and the cocky celebration Connor does right after sends an electric spark down his belly. 

He watches the replay in slow motion and can’t help but snort at Noah’s annoyed expression in the background of the Oilers celebratory huddle. He swipes out of the Twitter app and into his messages. His text to Noah only reads, _duuuuuuuuuuuude_ , but he thinks it gets his judgement across well enough.

He takes his toothbrush out from between his teeth and rinses his mouth under the faucet. His phone buzzes on the glass shelf above his head. It’s probably Hanny, he figures, with a lame retort about how they still won the game, and how many points exactly did Jack’s team get tonight?

Jack scratches at his bare stomach as he walks back into the room, getting under the thick blanket of his bed. It’s not a text from Noah. Instead, Connor has sent him, _hey u awake??_

He double taps on Connor’s contact and listens to the dial tone for a few seconds, before there’s a click. 

“You know, sorry you guys lost and everything, but you didn’t have to murder Noah like that,” is what he opens with. He shifts a little on the bed, pushing his socks off with his toes. “That’s like, not helpful at all for when I gotta tell him you had your dick in my mouth.” 

Connor’s laugh comes out in a short burst. “What, were you planning to?” 

“I don’t know,” Jack mumbles, going for coy. The low rumble of Connor’s voice spurs on the heated tension he’s felt in his stomach since he saw Connor’s goal. He rests his fingers above the waistband of his boxers. “Depends, I guess. If you keep embarrassing my best friend out there it’s not likely I’ll survive when I do.”

“Ah, we can’t have that.” There’s a smile in Connor’s voice, indulging. “Maybe it’s best to wait until after the All Star weekend, then.” 

Jack hears the insinuation behind the words and raises his eyebrows. “And why’s that?” 

“Can’t get my hands on you if you’re dead, can I?” Connor retorts. There’s a palpable edge to Connor’s voice now, his words sending heat down Jack’s spine. 

“Oh, so you just want me there for my body,” he quips. “Still gonna be that horny when I beat you in Fastest Skater?” 

“Probably, yeah,” Connor says. It’s silent for a few seconds before Connor says, “I keep thinking about that night.” 

Jack doesn’t have to ask what night Connor means, the fabric of his boxers going tighter around his hardening cock. “Yeah?” he breathes. At Connor’s affirmative hum, he mutters. “Me, too. It gets me hard, just remembering it.”

The sheets rustle as pushes his phone between his ear and the pillow, bringing his now free hand beneath the covers. He tugs his boxers down, pushing the waistband just below his balls. The elastic is tight on his skin, a contrast to the soft and simmering pressure in his cock.

“Are you touching yourself?” Connor asks. “Are you in bed?” 

“What’s this, twenty questions?” Jack huffs out, pressing his phone back against his ear. “Of course I’m in bed, it’s the middle of the night.” 

“And you’re jerking off?” Connor asks again, ignoring Jack’s pissy remarks. He manages to sound both flustered and pushy at the same time, telling him, “If you’re not, you should. I’m hard, too, so.” 

“Well, if you’re hard, too,” Jack mutters under his breath. He gets a hand on himself, though, starting a rhythm as he pumps his fist. Knowing that Connor is probably listening for it makes his cock fatten up even more. A groan escapes through his teeth on the upstroke. 

“C’mon, let me hear it,” Connor breathes, his voice coming out rough. “Fucking love those sounds you made. When I had my fingers in you. Wish we didn’t have a game the next day, wanted to fuck you so bad.” 

Jack presses the back of his head into the pillow, sweat breaking out across his skin as he speeds up his hand. “Fuck, me too,” he pants, biting down on his lower lip when he twists his grip on the head of his cock. “What were you sayin’? ‘bout All Star weekend?”

He can feel the phantom waft Connor’s chuckle against his neck, something clenching around his heart. He presses his phone harder against his ear, picking up the slick sounds of Connor jerking off. It makes his throat go dry. 

He mentally flits through the memories from that night, the way Connor’s cock had been hard and full, a blushy shade of pink all over except for the red tinge of the head. Imagining Connor’s strong, big hand fisted tightly around the length of it makes his breathing go erratic.

“Thought maybe I’ll stop by your room at night.” Connor sounds just as wrecked as he does, the noises of him jerking off picking up. “Get you stretched on my fingers.”

Jack curses, thumbing at the wetness gathering at the head of his cock. His hips rise off the the bed as they meet his fist again and again. “Yeah, fuck, you should.”

“You want that?” Connor asks, a moan filtering down the line. “My dick pushing inside of you?”

The image of Connor’s cock pressing against his hole and pushing past the rim makes the muscles in his stomach clench. He feels his orgasm nearing, a steady thrum of pleasure running through his body. 

“Yeah, I want that,” he urges, nodding. The rhythm of his hand falters, his balls drawing up tight against his body with the building tension. “Fuck, Connor, want you inside of me. Making me take it.”

There is a drawn out gasp on the other end and the litany of curses that follow send him over the edge, too. He angles the head of his dick against his belly, coating his skin with come. His stomach rises and falls with his quick breathing, and his body sinks fully into the shape of the mattress.

They breathe at each other for about a minute before Connor lets out a breathy laugh. “Shit, I made a mess.” 

“Yeah, me too. That was really hot, tough.” Jack tugs his boxers back up, wiping down his stomach with his discarded shirt. 

He lets it drop back onto the floor and stretches his free arm above his head, his fingers closing around the headboard as he feels his muscles tense and loosen up again once he lets go. 

“It was,” Connor mutters, his voice soft. “You sound tired, though. Should go get some sleep.”

A yawn comes up right then, as if on cue. “I will,” Jack sighs, rolling over to the other side of the bed. “Wanna FaceTime tomorrow? I got some time before the game.” 

“Yeah, okay. I have a day off so call me whenever you’re free. I don’t plan to move away from the couch too much.” 

Jack smiles. “Sounds exciting. I’ll text you before. Sleep tight, Davo.” 

“Okay,” Connor whispers, sounding halfway to sleep already, too. “Sweet dreams.”

-

He lands in St. Louis on Friday morning. The cab ride to the hotel isn’t too long, rain drizzling down from the gray sky. He takes his time getting unpacked, hanging his suit for tomorrow night’s red carpet up against the bathroom door. The view from his window is actually pretty sweet and he sends a picture of it to Connor, along with his room number. He goes out for lunch with Ryan at a restaurant downtown and they catch up over a burger and a few beers. 

They get back to the hotel halfway through the afternoon, PR staff and interns awaiting them to usher them towards separate tables. He puts his Atlantic Division jersey on and answers the media’s questions. Connor has sent him a text back and he checks it while the cameras are being set up.

Connor’s text reads, _flight got cancelled, need to wait 2hrs for the next one_

Jack looks across the room to where Connor was supposed to sit. Someone from the staff is talking to the reporters who are gathered around the table. He watches them disperse and he can’t help but feel disappointed, too. It’s not like he and Connor could’ve met up right here, in the middle of the room with all the cameras and media around. It would’ve been nice to see his face in the crowd, though. To make that connection whenever they’re both asked a dumb question.

It’s as if they can sense he’s thinking about Connor, because one reporter pipes up with, “How do you feel about going up for Fastest Skater again? Is this going to be the year you beat McDavid?” 

He lets out a dry laugh, jerking up his left shoulder. “Honestly, I’m just out there tryin’ not to embarrass myself. There’s a lot of fast guys competing this year, you’ve got Kreids and Barzal, so. It’s gonna be a fun event.”

With that, he turns his head and looks another reporter in the eye, who startles a little and quickly asks him about his thoughts on the new targets for this year’s skills competition. 

After he’s released from the media by the PR staff he goes out for dinner with Mitch and Seth. They all eat and drink a little too much and he can still hear Mitch singing in the hallway when he closes the door to his hotel room. 

He changes into a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. There’s a knock on the door as he tugs the hem of the shirt down. He walks over to the door and opens it. Connor is standing on the other side, looking tired. His eyes light up when he sees Jack. 

“Hey, there you are,” Jack says, reaching out to pull at Connor’s sleeve. He tugs Connor into the room and notices the black overnight bag Connor’s carrying. “They didn’t even let you up to your room first?”

“No, uh, there was still a lot of media waiting for me. Someone looked after it, though. My room card’s somewhere in there.” Connor closes the door behind him and Jack feels the flutter in his fingers, wanting to reach out. 

He steps in closer and puts his hand at the back of Connor’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Connor makes a soft, surprised noise against his mouth, leaning into the touch. There’s a thump on the floor and then both of Connor’s arms wind around his waist, their bodies pressing closer. 

The taste of Connor’s tongue in his mouth is familiar, addictive. Their fingers bump together as they both fumble at the buttons on Connor’s coat. It falls onto the floor next to the bag. Jack walks them backwards, not breaking the kiss as he tugs Connor down on top of him on the bed. 

The kiss is languid and unhurried. Connor is heavy on top of him but Jack welcomes the weight, his thighs falling apart to accommodate for Connor’s slim hips between them. 

Connor’s stomach lets out a growl then and Jack pulls back, opening his eyes. The dark look in Connor’s eyes, staring right back at him make the muscles in his stomach tighten pleasantly. “Have you even had dinner?” he asks. 

Connor sneaks an arm around his waist and uses it to roll them over onto their sides. He shakes his head. “No, just. Wanted to see you first.” 

Jack smiles, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers through Connor’s hair. “There’s a room service menu on the desk, it has some good stuff. I could go for ice cream, too.” 

“Okay,” Connor smiles back, getting off the bed smoothly. He walks up to the desk and leans over the menu, propping his hands up on the wood. 

Jack lets himself look at the shift of the muscles in Connor’s shoulders underneath his shirt, taking in the way Connor’s waist curves into his ass. Connor’s hair is messy, slightly sticking out at the side where Jack’s had his fingers in it. There’s a dull throb of arousal in his belly, his body fully aware of the enclosed space they’re in. 

“See something you like?” he asks. When Connor looks over his shoulder, he follows up with, “If you’re gonna say me, I’ll kick you out.” 

The corner of Connor’s mouth curls up and he takes the menu with him as he walks back to the bed, lying down next to Jack. “The chickpea burger with asparagus, maybe. And some fries,” he says, showing the menu to Jack. “What kinda ice cream do you want?”

“Strawberry,” Jack says, resting his temple against Connor’s shoulder. “Two scoops.” 

Connor hums, reaching his other hand out to grab the phone from the nightstand. Jack closes his eyes as he listens to Connor order the food, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

“Twenty minutes,” Connor says, twisting to the right to put the phone back on the nightstand. “Maybe I should’ve ordered some expensive wine. The league’s footing the bill, so.” 

Jack snorts, splaying his palm on Connor’s stomach. “You could always raid the minibar if you want,” he says, a yawn escaping his lips. “Wanna watch some TV before the food comes? Marns said there’s a Twilight marathon going on.” 

“I think I’ll pass,” Connor whispers, his lips hovering over Jack’s. He gives him a quick peck before he pulls back, meeting Jack’s eyes. “I bought us something at the airport while I was waiting for my flight. Thought it’d be fun to do, maybe. It’s in my bag.” 

“Oh?” Jack raises his eyebrows, sitting up on the bed. He leans forward and reaches out his arm, dragging the bag closer across the floor. While he zips it open, he asks, “It’s not something sex-related, right? Because I don’t think I can handle the idea of you buying sex stuff in some airport in Colorado.”

“It’s not,” Connor says, and even though Jack’s not looking at him, he can hear the long-suffering tone in his voice. “Just open it.” 

Jack does, holding the bag open. There’s a blue plastic bag on top of Connor’s clothes and he takes it out. He opens it and looks inside. A smile splits on his face and he laughs. “Dude.” 

He takes the box out and rolls back over to Connor, putting it on Connor’s chest. “Davo,” he says, feeling warmth burst wide in his chest. “You bought us Scrabble?” 

Connor lets out an affirmative hum, a small smile playing around his lips. “I saw you had a lot of board games, last time. No Scrabble, though.” 

Jack sits up on the bed, cross-legged. He opens the box and looks at the contents. “I think I remember having one when I was a kid. The board fell apart at some point, though, so my mom threw it out.” He meets Connor’s eyes. “Thank you.” 

“Hope you’ll still like it when I beat you at this in person, ” Connor says, a playful yet challenging edge to his voice. 

The look he levels Connor with clearly says enough, because Connor is sitting up, too. 

It takes some maneuvering but they manage to get the board set up between them as they sit across from each other. Jack uses his free hand to shield his letters, frowning at Connor when he immediately manages to get a double word value on the first word he puts down. 

There’s a handful on words spread across the board when there’s a knock on the door. Connor gets off the bed, covering his own letters with the room service menu and giving Jack a look that promises suffering if he dares to take a peek. 

Jack stares at his own letters, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he moves a couple of tiles on the rack. He listens to Connor thank the person at the door, the smell of food carrying further into the room.

Connor carries the tray to the desk and hands Jack his bowl of ice cream. He demolishes half the burger in a single bite and he plops back onto the bed, setting the burger down on his plate. 

“Still nothing?” he asks, stuffing a sweet potato fry into his mouth. “There’s gotta be something you can put down.” 

Jack frowns, pushing a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He narrows his eyes at the letters on his rack. He sets his bowl aside then, thinks, _fuck it._ He gathers most of his tiles in the palm of his hand and leans over the board. Connor had put down _POLICY_ as his second word, raking in 23 points. Jack uses the _I_ as his first letter, laying down _LIKEU._ He sits back and watches as varying degrees of confusion pass over Connor’s face.

“Ilikeu,” Connor deadpans. “What’s that supposed to mean? That’s not a word.” 

Jack can feel a flush staining his cheeks and he shakes his head. “It’s not a word.” 

The furrow above Connor’s brow deepens. “Then what’s--”

“It’s three words,” Jack explains, propping his hand on the bed as he leans forward. He traces his finger along the letters he’d put down. “I-L-I-K-E-U. I like you.” 

“Oh.” The confusion clears away from Connor’s face and he meets Jack’s eyes, his expression soft. 

Jack feels his heart thump in his chest, the rhythm quickening when Connor stays silent. He gives a shrug. “You’re right, though,” he says, looking back down at the game. “It doesn’t count as a word.” 

He moves to reach out his hand to take the letters away from the board but Connor covers it with his own, threading their fingers together. Jack looks back up, meeting Connor’s eyes again. 

“I think it counts.” Connor’s voice is firm, the sound of it a little rough.

Jack feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?” 

Connor nods, clearing his throat. He leans over the board to add up the points of the letters Jack had put down and scribbles down the points on the piece of paper beside him.

He keeps ahold of Jack’s hand throughout the rest of the game. 

-

The following morning starts off slowly, with only a few fan events being organized which they’re both not needed for. They spend most of the morning in Connor’s hotel room, talking and watching a bit of TV. Draisaitl comes into the room around noon, wanting to borrow Connor’s charger. If he’s surprised by Jack being there, it doesn’t show on his face. 

He’s getting ready to go back to his own room to get dressed for the red carpet, when the TV suddenly catches his eye. The programming schedule for the day comes up and he notices it. Connor’s documentary is coming on after the Skills Competition. He’d seen it before but now it hits him that it’s tonight.

He looks back towards the bed where Connor’s peering at his e-mails on his laptop. “Do you want to watch it?” he asks.

Connor looks up over his screen and meets Jack’s eyes. When Jack nods towards the TV he looks over. “Oh,” he says, looking thoughtful. “I’ve seen it already, y’know. So. Do you want to?” 

The look Connor sends him is slightly guarded. Jack gets it, given what happened when the documentary had come up between them. He thinks about it. He doesn’t want to see it tonight, that’s for sure. They’re on limited time here and he’d rather spend his energy on the real Connor he’s got within reach right now. 

“I’d rather hear the full story from you, sometime,” he admits. He doesn’t know if that’s the right thing to say, but it’s true for him. It’s a story he wants to hear from Connor’s mouth, rather than through some slick editing and a work-out montage set to the swelling sound of classical music.

Connor sets his laptop aside and gets off the bed, walking over to where Jack’s standing. There’s a gentle look in his eyes when he says, “I’d like that.” 

Jack lets himself get pulled into a slow kiss, time running away from them again when Connor wraps his arms tightly around his waist. 

-

The lights in the Enterprise Center are bright as he sits on the bench, watching Kreids step up to the start. He’s glad to get this over with as the first event of the night, even though the smooth ice might cause them to slip easier.

Kreids is off right after the opening shot and he flies around the ice, clocking in just barely over Connor’s winning time from last year. Jack can’t help but look over to the other bench. Connor’s eyes are already meeting his, eyebrows raised in a challenge. 

He’s up himself within five minutes and in position, focusing his eyes onto the ice. The shot goes off and so does he, getting his feet moving quickly as he heads into the first corner. He picks up speed coming out of the second, taking long strides. There’s a hitch in his step-over in the third corner, though, but he doesn’t slip. He makes it past the finish, having taken just a bit longer than Kreids on his lap.

It’s easy to laugh off, though, bumping his shoulder against Kreids as he gets back on the bench. He knows they’re all gonna keep their eyes on Connor for this one. He just hopes he doesn’t slip.

Mat is the last one to go up before Connor. Jack feels the surprise thrumming across the bench when Mat finishes nearly half a second before Kreids. He can see that Connor’s jaw is set as he gets over the boards and skates up to the start.

The announcer’s voice is blaring through the arena and the shot goes off. Jack can barely keep track of the movement of Connor’s feet as he goes through the corners. It’s easy to tell that Connor’s going faster than Mat but he’s also taking his corners wider. 

Jack jerks his head up towards the jumbotron when Connor passes the line and lets out a shocked breath through his nose. Connor has lost. 

There’s laughter and whooping on the bench as a couple guys crowd around Mat, patting his head. Jack leans over, too, tapping Mat’s side. Mat looks kinda stunned himself, panting his way through the interview right after.

They quickly move over to the Save Streak challenge and Jack makes his way out of the bench with the rest of the guys. Connor’s getting over the boards again, too, and Jack makes sure to pass through the crowd to tap his stick against the back of Connor’s right leg. 

It’s an innocuous gesture but Connor looks up and they shoot each other a quick smirk before they separate into the groups of their respective divisions. 

-

After the event’s over, most of the guys head to a bar downtown. Jack tags along, sitting at the bar with a beer bottle in his hand as he talks to Pasta about the game tomorrow. They’re at a sports bar and Jack lets his eyes go over the jerseys and other memorabilia hanging on the wall. There are a couple of TV screens hanging from the ceiling, one of them replaying tonight’s Skills Competition. 

It’s a busy night and with twenty or so hockey players inside, the bar is full and people are brushing up against each other as they go get drinks. 

He’s raising his voice over the noise, agreeing to Pasta’s remarks about the line combinations for tomorrow when someone briefly pushes up tight against him, their hands closing around his hips before releasing him. 

He looks to the side and notices Connor standing with his back towards him, wearing a cap backwards on his head and his fingers loosely curled around a bottle. 

There’s a small group of guys standing with Connor and Jack notices Mat and TK. Mitch is there, too, looking up at the TV as the Shooting Stars challenge is shown again, arguing with Segs about his point total at the end. He notices Jack looking and beckons him over, waving with his hand.

Jack goes, pressing through a couple of bodies before he reaches Mitch. Connor’s standing a few feet away, giving him a smile when he spots him. 

“Dude, back me up here,” Mitch is saying, pointing up at the TV. “That totally should’ve counted.” 

“I mean,” Jack says, dragging out the word. “The net’s the net, Marns, and it didn’t go in. Kaner had this one.”

Segs laughs, clapping a hand down on Jack’s shoulder as he says to Mitch, “Told you, dude.”

Mitch directs a scowl at Jack. “You’re just saying that because you’re American,” he says. He looks around the bar, a triumphant expression taking over his face. “Davo!” 

A jolt goes through Jack’s body as Mitch calls out for Connor, the heat of the bar suddenly getting to him. Him and Connor haven’t talked to each other in front of other guys in the league, in, what? Four years? He hopes Mitch won’t mention it because it’d be hard to keep a straight face through that. He watches Connor turn around, making his way over to them when Mitch starts waving his arms again. 

“What’s up?” Connor asks. He comes to stand next to Jack, the front of his right shoulder pressed up behind Jack’s left in the cramped space among the crowd. 

He knows there’s a red flush spreading across his cheekbones and he looks down at the floor briefly, bringing his bottle back up to take a long sip. It nearly goes down his windpipe when Connor’s fingers come to rest at the small of his back, just above the waistband of his pants.

“I totally should’ve gotten those points, right?” Mitch argues, looking back up at the TV. The broadcast is over, though, and commercials are playing. “With the Shooting Star thing.” 

Connor smiles, shrugging. “You did hit the arch a lot, which was part of the target--” he says, to which Mitch crows, “Right?!”, “--but in a real game it’s not a goal if you hit the pipe.” 

Jack lets out a snort and Segs is doubling over at the outraged expression on Mitch’ face. Connor’s laughing, too, even though Mitch is pointing at him, lamenting at Connor for bringing about the death of their friendship. He can’t help looking at Connor and the way the skin around Connor’s eyes is crinkled with mirth makes a beat skip in his chest. 

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, then, going through the bar. Jack looks away from Connor to look. Most of the people have angled their heads up, looking at one of the TVs in the corner. Jack does, too. He can feel Connor’s body stiffen beside him before he realizes what he’s looking at. 

The TV is showing the opening images of Connor’s documentary, the title card coming on. Jack turns his head to meet Connor’s eyes, but Connor is looking between the TV and the guys who are watching it. 

The noise in the bar goes up to the previous level again after a few seconds, most people continuing their conversations. Still, the documentary keeps playing and some players are still watching it. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick,” Connor says then, plastering a smile on his face before extracting himself from their little group. 

Jack opens his mouth to say something but Connor’s already gone. He looks at the direction Connor went in and sees him heading towards the door. Mitch and Segs are talking but whatever they’re saying isn’t registering with him as he looks through the crowd to see if anyone else noticed Connor leaving.

His gaze locks on Draisaitl’s, who is standing on the other side of the room. He’s not doing anything, doesn’t attempt to go after Connor. Instead, he’s just steadily looking back at Jack, an expectant lift to his left eyebrow. 

Jack can feel his feet moving towards the door. He ignores Mitch calling after him, grabbing his coat from the hook and tugging it on. 

The air outside is cold against his flushed face and he looks around. He spots Connor leaning against the wall of the bar, the shadow of the neighboring building slightly concealing him.

Jack walks up to him, putting his body between Connor and the door of the bar. Connor sends him a wry smile. 

“It’s fine,” he says, his eyes fixing somewhere on Jack’s chest. “I’m fine. You can go back inside, if you want.”

There’s an unpleasant twitch in his stomach when he thinks about doing that. “I’d rather be out there with you,” he says, reaching out to brush his fingers briefly against Connor’s. 

Connor looks down at it, a frustrated noise leaving his lips. “It’s just. Awkward. Having all those guys we play with watching it while I’m there.”

“So let’s go then,” Jack says, his voice soft. He gives Connor a small nudge. “I’ve been ready to leave for an hour. I forgot how tiring it is to hang out with Marns all day.”

That gets Connor to smile. He lets out a breath through his nose and nods. “Yeah, okay.” 

Jack reaches out his hand again to pull at Connor’s wrist through his sleeve, tugging him away from the wall and into step beside him. 

The hotel isn’t far away from the bar and they walk through the quiet streets in comfortable silence. Jack sticks close to Connor, their hands brushing against each other as they round the corner to the street of their hotel.

Connor’s hotel room is dark, the thick blanket rumpled near the end of the bed. The light in the bathroom is on and the door is slightly open, casting an orange beam of light across the carpet. 

Jack is looking down, unbuttoning his coat when Connor steps into his space and gently moves him back against the wall. He allows it to take his weight, leaning his shoulders against it.

Connor’s lips are warm against his as he pushes in for a kiss, a contrast to the cold tip of his nose pressing against his cheek. Jack opens his mouth to slide their tongues together, deepening the kiss with one hand at the back of Connor’s neck. 

It takes him aback each time, how nice it is to kiss Connor. Connor pays attention to the details of it, dragging sighs and noises out of him with the press of his lips and the movement of his tongue. His single-minded focus is completely on Jack, making him feel grounded and untethered at the same time. 

With a kiss to his bottom lip, Connor pulls back. His eyes are warm, his fingers tangled in Jack’s hair at the back of his head. “Thanks,” he says, a quiet, sincere tone to his voice. “For not letting me convince you to go back inside.”

There’s something in Connor’s eyes that’s overwhelming him, pulling him in. He cups Connor’s face between his hands and closes the distance between them again. 

Connor moves them away from the wall, walking backwards into the room. He tugs Jack down on top of him as he lays back on the bed, smiling into the kiss when their teeth clack together with the impact of it. 

Jack feels the stretch in his thighs as he straddles Connor’s hips, bending down to capture Connor’s mouth again. The movements of Connor’s hands sliding down his back and squeezing his ass make him aware of how warm he feels. He sits up, Connor’s noise of protest going straight to his groin. 

He can feel the bulge of Connor’s cock through the layers of their pants, pressing up against his balls. It makes his throat go dry and he instinctively rocks his hips, creating a teasing kind of friction. 

“Fuck, Jack,” Connor breathes out, his fingers tightening on Jack’s thighs “I brought. Stuff, in my suitcase. If you want to.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows, pressing his weight down on Connor’s hips again with a movement of his own. He watches Connor’s eyelids flutter shut briefly, his eyelashes fanning out across his cheek as he pushes his hard-on up against Jack’s ass with small, hitching movements. 

“Felt confident?” Jack asks, a teasing lilt to his voice as he slides his hands down Connor’s chest and getting them under his hoodie. The muscles in Connor’s stomach jump underneath the touch. His skin is warm and Jack curls his fingers slightly. 

“Hoping, mostly,” Connor breathes, giving Jack a heated look when their eyes meet. “Last time the schedule has us together in the same place, so.”

Those words still Jack, the movement of his hands across Connor’s upper body abating. The realization had crossed his mind before, but now that Connor is saying it out loud it hits him right behind his sternum, aching. 

He feels the urge to be close to Connor overtake him and he bends down to press his mouth against Connor’s in a firm kiss. “You’re right,” he breathes against Connor’s lips. He pulls back to look at Connor. “Did you bring condoms?” 

Connor’s throat bobs as he swallows, nodding slowly. “Yeah. What do you want?” 

Jack rubs his thumb along Connor’s upper lip, following the movement with his eyes as Connor lets him dip it inside his mouth. He presses down on the flat of Connor’s tongue. “I want you inside of me. Stretching me on your fingers first,” he mutters. He pulls his thumb back, dragging the wetness across Connor’s bottom lip. “That okay?”

“Yes.” Connor’s voice is rough. “Yeah, I want that, too.” 

He regrets having to get off the bed to allow Connor to go to his suitcase, but he makes use of the brief separation to get undressed. Connor throws the bottle of lube towards the bed, almost hitting Jack in the forehead with it. He lets out a snort at the disdainful look Jack sends his way, the heated tension between them breaking up a little as Connor gets undressed too. 

The first press of Connor’s index-finger against his hole reignites the feelings he remembers from last time. His thighs are spread wide across Connor’s hips and he can feel the coarse hair on Connor’s legs against his calves. Connor’s dark eyes rave across his body, looking at his reactions as he presses his finger fully inside. He feels exposed, looked at, and it makes his fingers tingle. 

Connor moves his finger in and out of him with a slow, steady pace, allowing Jack to feel everything. The stretch feels nice and he closes his fist around the head of his cock, the contact taking the edge off a little. 

“You look so good,” Connor tells him, his voice hushed as he eases the second finger inside. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” 

Sweat breaks out across his body at those words, the praise getting to him and making him rock back on Connor’s fingers. They slip in completely, Connor’s knuckles pressed up against his hole. He lets out a moan when Connor crooks his fingers, massaging the pads right up against his prostate.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his hands sliding up Connor’s chest for leverage, grinding down on Connor’s hand. “Right there.” 

Connor doesn’t let up, merciless in his gentle movements as he makes Jack come apart on his fingers. 

Jack can feel the burn when Connor presses his ring finger up against his rim, easing it in alongside the other two. A hot shiver goes down his spine, ending right where he can picture his hole being wrapped around Connor’s knuckles, his fingers sinking in completely. 

“You’re so tight,” Connor breathes out, wonder in his eyes when he looks up at Jack and down his body, his other hand squeezing the part where Jack’s ass meets his thigh. “Do you need another one?” 

The thought of postponing the part where Connor finally presses his cock inside makes Jack shake his head in stuttering motions. “No, I’m good,” he manages to get say. “Get in me, I want. Want you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Connor nods quickly, a contrast to the slow movement of his fingers as he eases them out, his other hand rubbing soothing motions up and down Jack’s thigh.

Jack makes a plaintive noise, a swooping feeling going down his stomach when he watches Connor’s glistening fingers pick up the condom. It takes a few tries to tear it open and Jack sits back a little to help Connor roll it down his hard cock. 

His knees press deep into the mattress as he hovers over Connor’s body, one hand braced on Connor’s chest, the other reaching behind him to guide Connor’s cock to his hole. The blunt pressure of Connor’s cock pressing against his rim makes his thighs briefly quiver. 

He focuses on the steadying presence of Connor’s hands on his hips, his fingers clenched tight. The head of Connor’s cock pushes in past the rim and it’s already so much, making his nerve endings sing as he slowly lowers his hips down. 

“Fuck, you’re so--” Connor breaks off, biting down on his lower lip. 

Connor’s balls press up against his hole, his cock completely inside. Jack lets out a shaky breath, the burn fading as he adjusts to the stretch. 

“You okay?” Connor asks, his gaze fiery as he looks at where Jack’s balls press up against his stomach, where he’s filled up with Connor’s cock. 

Jack bites down on his lower lip as he rocks his hips, feeling Connor’s cock slide against his inner walls. “Yeah, ‘s good,” he mutters, pressing his hands firmer against Connor’s chest.

He lifts up a little, his mouth opening on a breath as he pulls off of Connor’s cock and sinks back down again. Connor lets out a punched-out moan, his hands slipping on Jack’s sticky-damp skin. 

The stretch feels good now, sparks shooting up his belly as he thrusts himself up and down on Connor’s length. His own cock is hard, the head leaving shiny streaks against the skin of Connor’s belly, where it’s rubbing up against the trail of hair that leads down from Connor’s navel. 

He feels Connor’s cock brush up against his prostate when he pushes down and lets out a soft moan. The palms of his hands are sweaty as he pulls them away from Connor’s chest and moves them behind himself, grabbing Connor’s thighs. He swivels his hips, pressing the head of Connor’s cock up against his prostate and chasing the electrifying feeling of it. 

“Fuck, Jack. You…” Connor’s voice is hoarse, eyes glassy and his bottom lip a furious shade of red where he’s been biting down on it. His hips are moving incrementally, chasing the tight clutch of Jack’s hole. 

Jack’s breathing hitches when Connor thrusts up inside of him, liquid heat spreading in his lower back. The muscles in his thighs are burning and he pulls his hands back to the front. He leans forward, feeling Connor’s arms encircle his waist as he lets his forehead drop into Connor’s neck. 

“You feel good. So good to me,” he mutters, tasting the sweaty tang of Connor’s skin on his lips. “Can you, again?” 

He feels Connor nod and lifts his own head to press their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. A whine escapes through his teeth when Connor props his feet up on the mattress, moving his hands down to Jack’s hips, holding on tightly as he pushes his cock up, sliding deep inside of Jack. 

Jack knows he’s a mess, pre-come dribbling steady from the head of his cock, smearing the skin of Connor’s stomach. His fingers curl when Connor starts up a quick rhythm, pushing his hips up and dragging Jack down to meet his thrusts.

“You’re so tight around me,” Connor pants, his breathing hot and hurried. His hands slip downwards across Jack’s skin, the muscles in his arms tensing as he grabs onto Jack’s ass, using his grip to dictate the pace. 

Jack closes his eyes, his senses overwhelmed by Connor’s presence in and around him, taking over. The fat head of Connor’s cock rubs across his prostate on each thrust, his nerve endings going raw with pleasure. 

“I’m not gonna last,” Connor grits out between his teeth. “Fuck, Jack.” 

“Me neither,” Jack says against Connor’s lips, feeling the tension going tighter in his belly. 

Connor’s tongue slips against his in an open-mouthed kiss before Connor pulls back, pushing the back of his head into the pillow. “I’ll get you there,” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding into Jack’s neck, holding on to his nape. 

Jack’s breath stutters out when Connor thrusts in deeper, the skin of his thighs slapping against Jack’s ass. He gets a hand around himself, fisting his slick cock. The head is red and swollen from where it has been rubbing against Connor’s stomach, pre-come clinging to the skin. 

There’s no rhythm to his jerks but it doesn’t matter, only managing a strained, “Fuck, gonna--!” before his orgasm catches up to him, rippling through his body as he comes across Connor’s stomach with a moan. 

“Yeah,” Connor gasps, right there with him, thrusting up once, twice, before his body goes taut underneath Jack’s. His mouth is hot against Jack’s shoulder as he comes, his cock pulsing in his ass. 

He breathes against the skin of Connor’s neck, wet underneath his lips. A shudder goes through him when Connor releases his grip on his hips after a few minutes, sliding his warm palms up and down Jack’s back in a slow pace. It soothes the ache he feels when Connor gently pulls out. 

“Are you okay?” Connor whispers at him, threading his fingers through Jack’s hair. 

Jack nods, the movement sluggish. “Yeah,” he breathes. “‘m good.”

Connor tightens his arms around his waist and Jack lets himself get rolled over, pushing his sweaty forehead into the pillow. It smells like Connor and he breathes in the scent of him, the fast pace of his heart slowing. 

He vaguely registers Connor getting off the bed to get rid of the condom. The bed dips when Connor returns, pressing a knee into the mattress as he leans over Jack. He drags a warm, damp cloth across his body, cleaning him up. 

Jack tugs Connor down onto the bed after Connor’s brought the cloth back to the bathroom. Connor’s skin is sticky, sweat drying across his collarbones. He presses his lips there, feeling the warmth of it. 

He lifts his head, resting his chin on Connor’s chest. A soft laugh escapes his lips when their eyes meet, seeing the fond glint in Connor’s eyes as he smiles down at him. He straightens out alongside Connor’s body, pressing a kiss against his temple.

Connor kicks up the duvet with his foot until he can reach it with his hand, tugging it over their bodies. It’s a new feeling for him, the naked curve of Connor’s body molding to his own underneath the blanket. Connor’s arm slides around his waist, his fingers resting in the hollow beneath his sternum. The warm puffs of Connor’s breath against the back of his neck makes his eyes burn, and he feels overwhelmed.

He hears the hoarse tone to his voice when he mutters, “What d’you think the league’s gonna punish us with if we just don’t show up tomorrow?” 

He feels the curve of Connor’s smile against his nape. “I don’t know. What do you wanna do?”

“This,” Jack says, “and have a lot more sex.” 

Connor laughs, his chest shaking a little against Jack’s back. “Alright,” he mutters, his words soft. “I’ll see what I can do with that tomorrow morning.” 

-

Pale light filters through the sheer drapes and Jack slowly blinks his eyes open, sleep fading from his body. Connor is still asleep beside him, his chest rising and falling steadily. His calf is slung over Jack’s leg and his arm is wrapped loosely around Jack’s waist. 

Jack watches the drapes move with the air coming through the slightly opened window. He fell asleep easily last night, his breathing matching Connor’s as they both drifted off. There were a few times during the night where he found himself awake, thoughts swirling through his head, magnified in the dark of the hotel room. Their size hasn’t diminished now that he’s awake.

He feels Connor awaken, his limbs twitching slightly as his breathing goes more shallow. The arm around his waist squeezes a little and Jack drags his fingers across Connor’s forearm. 

“Hey,” Connor whispers, pressing a kiss against Jack’s shoulders. “How long have you been awake?”

Jack turns around in Connor’s arms, an electric shudder going through him when their bare cocks brush together. “A while. Thinking ‘bout some stuff.” 

“Oh?” Connor looks more alert now, the last traces of sleep disappearing from his gaze. “About what?” 

About a lot, Jack doesn’t say. He also doesn’t tell Connor about the ache he’s begun to feel in his chest when Connor sends him a smile through FaceTime, from across the continent. The list of potential words for their continuing games of Words with Friends growing longer in his phone. A dark blue beanie hanging from a peg on his coat rack, the one Connor left behind when he came over to his house. The warmth in his heart when he hears the sound of Connor’s deep voice in his ear, the intensity becoming stronger every day, making him think, making him wonder, if it could be love. 

“I have three days off in February.” His heartbeat is thrumming through his veins. He breathes in deeply, the question on his tongue. He dares a look up at Connor. 

Connor’s eyes are soft, his lips curved into a smile.

_the end._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! Any feedback is lovingly cradled in my arms.♡
> 
> [tumblr](https://kirbiedach.tumblr.com)!


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